


Mr. Emo Author Conspiracy Theorist

by Katey_Opalescent



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Lance (Voltron), Barista Lance (Voltron), But it's gonna be there, Coffee Shops, Conspiracy Theories, Government Conspiracy, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not sure if it's gonna be a lot, Pining Keith (Voltron), Pining Lance (Voltron), Slow Burn, Tension, Time Travel Conspiracy, Writer Keith (Voltron), hopefully lol, how does one slow burn?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-11-13 11:32:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 56,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11184225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katey_Opalescent/pseuds/Katey_Opalescent
Summary: “Don’t blink, you’ll miss it.”“Miss what?”“This! The moon, the stars, the serenity of the night!” A beat of silence, an insecure shuffle, and a downward tilt of a worrying head. “Me.”“Well, I beg to differ.”“Well, I can’t deny that I love hearing you beg. Alright, what’s your argument?”“I’d never miss you. Yeah, maybe the stars, and the moon, and the ‘serenity’ as you like to call it. But you? No blink could ever erase you.”“Careful there, Mr. Emo Author Conspiracy Theorist. You’ll be awfully embarrassed to know that it almost sounds as if you have feelings of some sort.”“Yeah, I’m kinda feeling like pushing you in front of a moving vehicle.”“Now that’s the spirit!”**********************Or the one where Keith is a successful conspiracy author, Lance is a barista and part time artist, and they both don't know what they're doing.





	1. Introduction

                _“Don’t blink, you’ll miss it.”_

_“Miss what?”_

_“This! The moon, the stars, the serenity of the night!” A beat of silence, an insecure shuffle, and a downward tilt of a worrying head. “Me.”_

_“Well, I beg to differ.”_

_“Well, I can’t deny that I love hearing you beg. Alright, what’s your argument?”_

_“I’d never miss you. Yeah, maybe the stars, and the moon, and the ‘serenity’ as you like to call it. But you? No blink could ever erase you.”_

_“Careful there, Mr. Emo Author Conspiracy Theorist. You’ll be awfully embarrassed to know that it almost sounds as if you have feelings of some sort.”_

_“Yeah, I’m kinda feeling like pushing you in front of a moving vehicle.”_

_“Now that’s the spirit!”_

The short-lived conversation was a recurring mantra bouncing about in Keith Kogane’s already thought-infested mind. Planting the label ‘conversation’ on it, he realizes, probably isn’t the best of terms to refer to it as. After all, it’s not much of a conversation if it takes place in his own mind while he’s on whatever surface his body has chosen to pass out on. (Whether it be the couch, a power nap while standing in the shower, the floor, or slumped over his desk.) Point is; it’s not truly a conversation if it’s just a dream, put together by his own imagination, and played out in his own head.

Fingerless glove clad hands tighten around the small 3x5 store brand notebook, the thin wispy pages crinkling underneath the harsh treatment. Said ‘conversation’ is written haphazardly, barely staying inside the respective lines of the paper. Normally, this kind of thing would have driven Keith insane. Always a sort of perfectionist when it comes to keeping his notes tidy. However, this particular notebook is full of sleep induced writing from previous nights when other ‘conversations’ would take place in his dreams. Beneath each conversation he has written _‘Same voice’,_ so that he knows it has been the same ‘person’ talking to him.

The bags underneath the author’s eyes are forced to have more prominence as Keith squints even harder at the words, the blue-violet of his eyes growing more striking as a contrast. He has no clue what exactly he’s expecting to come out of glaring. Perhaps by some miracle he’ll be knocked right back into the dream, where just maybe he could properly pick apart the voice that was speaking to him. There has always been a mechanical nature to the voice that converses with him in the dreams. The pitching varied, as if glitching, or constantly changing the channel.

Here’s the thing, Keith is painfully aware of the fact that all it’s been is dreams. And, had it of been a one or two-time thing, it wouldn’t have been in his nature to think much of it. Much to the Korean man’s frustration and luck, that just so happens to not be the case. In fact, it’s become more of an every three days thing, for a little over a month straight. Along with that, it being a dream means there has been very little that can lead Keith to a reasonable answer. Being a successful conspiracy theorist whose very livelihood is to crack mysteries, and make sense of the wonders of the world, it’s a little off-putting that he can’t even so much as come up with a theory about his own first world conspiracy.

_“Oh man, you’ve really isolated yourself, haven’t you? Made up a lovey-dovey relationship in your head that only takes place while you’re sleeping? My man, this isn’t a conspiracy, you just need to get laid.”_

Huffing, Keith recalls why he hasn’t told anyone else but Pidge about the dreams and what he thinks of them. They’re a fellow conspiracy theorist, minus the part about making it their career. To be shot down by someone who can be convinced that _Mothman_ exists is largely discouraging, and can put quite the dent in someone’s already deflated ego. If Pidge doesn’t buy into it, then he knows for a damn fact that anyone else would have a field day making fun of him for it.

“So, I didn’t even bother taking your order, because you look willing to tear apart one of your so very precious notebooks which means you’re definitely willing to tear me apart for annoying you.” Keith lets out a startled high-pitched yelp, his body jumping and causing the notebook to go flying out of his hands and smack the cream colored tiled flooring below. Hands frozen midair and eyes blown wide, he slowly faces the Cuban man behind all of this.

 Wearing a white apron decorated spontaneously with pins that are adorned with either puns or characters from numerous fandoms, Lance McClain stares back at Keith with a large caramel macchiato in his right hand. “You know, you’re really lucky that this thing has a lid on it, Mullet. You startled me so much that I would’ve sent the hot coffee everywhere. There would’ve been worse damage to that poor little notebook of yours than you handling it like it’s the enemy.” Lance has the decency to at least look mildly apologetic as he sets down the coffee a safe distance away from the regular’s laptop, but it was nothing big enough to overthrow the teasing lilt in his words. He also has the decency to pick up the fallen notebook, missing the way Keith’s eyes subtly traveled with him.

“I told you not to call me that,” Keith grumbles, but nonetheless accepts the coffee, grabbing it from where Lance had set it down. The steam causes at least ninety percent of his tension to fade away; shoulders relaxing and the seemingly permanent scowl on his face softening into a more neutral look. “Why the hell did you give me a sweet drink? I always order black coffee.”

Rolling his eyes, Lance crosses his arms and pops out a hip. “Because, Mullet. You’re looking next level salty over here, and I’m a considerate friend who thought ‘hey, he needs something sweet to balance out those sodium levels!’ So what do I do? I ring you up one of the less sweet drinks, because I’m also nice enough to know you wouldn’t want something too extreme, _and_ I pay for it on my own, because I don’t want to force you to pay for a drink you didn’t even ask for. Aren’t I just the _greatest_? A free coffee that has some thought put into it.”

Not appreciating the cocky tone, Keith responds with an ungrateful huff and takes a sip of the unwanted beverage. _Fuck, it’s kinda good._ Glowering at the paper cup disapprovingly, he reluctantly takes a longer sip that has Lance pridefully grinning.

“ _Thank you Lance, you’re just the greatest Lance, you always look out for me Lance.”_

Rolling his eyes once again, Keith mutters in response, “Whatever, thanks.”

“Allura I’m taking my break!” Lance yells to the back, not bothering to wait for a response as he carelessly unties his apron and slides into the booth across from his moody friend. There’s the distant sound of his boss/other friend groaning loudly in response, but he merely shoots Allura a charming grin in response before settling back in his seat. “So, like are your balls tied up like a bull? You’re at least five percent more moody than usual, Mullet. Starting to feel like the color red isn’t the only thing that will make you charge.”

The glower reappears on Keith’s face, his lips tightly held together in a silent response.

Shuffling a little awkwardly, Lance hunkers down in his seat as if ashamed and frowns at his friend. “Alright, we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. But just remember I’m here to talk to, and I’ve got no right to judge. I already know you publish books about aliens and how the government is full of reptiles, I highly think anything else you tell me will send me running for the hills. Just keep that in mind, yeah?”

Now it was Keith’s turn to feel guilty, his gaze lowering down to the paper cup as he releases a defeated sigh. “I’m sorry,” He murmurs, not too keen on speaking loudly as the café happens to be in its early morning rush hour. Too many people around that can easily stick their nose in his business. “It’s nothing, I didn’t sleep well last night. Passed out trying to make dinner, woke up to the fire alarm. Thankfully it was just smoke, but it was enough to startle me awake for quite a few hours.”

Easing up, Lance throws his head back in laughter, clapping his hands together a bit as he exclaims, “That’s just perfect! Keith Kogane, New York Times Best Selling Author, has once again burned another more than likely poorly thrown together meal, but this time to a whole new level! I love having talented friends. Tell me, what was burned this time?”

“What do you mean, another? For all you know I could be a fantastic cook, I could be the world’s next successful chain of restaurants and you would never see it coming!” The light is back in not only Keith’s voice, but his eyes as well. While Lance’s persistence can be the most annoying trait about him, it’s also one of the best. Generally, he’s a decent judge of when to stop, when buttons can be pushed, and when he needs to be serious.

“Oh, my dude, you have no clue how many things Pidge has told me. You bet your happy little emo ass I heard all about the night that you two geeks binge watched alien documentaries on Netflix, and Hunk had somehow convinced you of ‘being a gracious host and preparing dinner and snacks’. Pidge was all over snapchat laughing their ass off and showing the burnt popcorn, and the failed frozen lasagna. One that you not only burned but also dropped on the floor because you didn’t have the common sense to use oven mitts. You had one job Keith, put that shit in the oven and then take that shit out.”

A couple snickers came from a nearby table to join the storyteller’s shameless laughter that was just a tad loud for a public setting. Lance acknowledges them, sending them a short look of ‘I know right, can you believe this guy?’ before turning back to face the wrath of Keith’s… pouty look.

“Okay so I have a little trouble when it comes to utilizing the kitchen, but joke’s on you we got to order pizza and that just so happens to go with a binge night far better than frozen lasagna.”

Snorting, Lance waves his hand and grins. “Alright I’ll let you have that one.”

“Let me have it? Excuse you, I won that fair and square.”

“Mullet, I just retold you the tragic tale of you ruining frozen lasagna. Something that I can make from scratch, starting with the noodles. Yes, I let you have that win. If you keep acting like an ungrateful emo brat, I’ll kindly take it back and lock it up somewhere you can’t have it.”

Sputtering, Keith goes to retort with the first thing that comes to mind (which just so happens to be a lame ‘fuck you I’m keeping it’) when he realizes how silly the nature of the conversation is and merely groans. Cleverly (he wishes), he brings the cup back up to his lips and takes a drink in order to avoid Lance’s cocky grin.

“Good boy.” And then Keith chokes, covering his mouth to keep the coffee from spewing onto his laptop. Cringing at the sight of the liquid seeping in between Keith’s fingers, Lance plucks a few too many napkins from the dispenser and shoves them at him. Once his friend is all well and cleaned up, Lance smirks and winks at him jokingly. “Didn’t know you were so easy there, Mullet.”

“I swear I will pin everything on your apron to your face and then leave you here to slowly and painfully remove them.”

“You wound me! You know how much I care for my skin, how dare you attack something so precious and dear to me? Honestly, Keith, have some manners.” The bland unamused look he receives in response makes the façade a little harder to hold up, a grin crawling onto his face without his consent. “Alright, fine fine,” He exclaims with exaggeration, throwing his hands up in mock defeat. “All’s fair in war and… war? Damn, that could have been great.”

“That’s what I think about just about anything that comes out of your mouth.”

“You know what? I’m gonna be the bigger person here, and I’ll let that one slide. Also, I’m like five minutes past break, and I swear I can see the smoke coming out of Allura’s ears from here. If the circumstances were different, she would have ripped me a new one by now for leaving her to deal with rush hour an employee short.” Awkwardly sliding out of the booth, Lance stands to his full 6”02 ft. height and shoots Keith a small smile.

“What’s so different about these circumstances?” Keith hadn’t intended for his voice to come out as if he had just been accused in some way, but he didn’t want anyone changing how they operate just because he exists. It’s uncomfortable, inconvenient, and useless.

“Well it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see you were clearly upset, over what I still don’t know but I hope I helped out.” Pausing, Lance crosses his arms over his chest in an insecure fashion before rambling on, “I- uh. Did I help out? I kind of just made fun of you the entire time, which now that I think of it is probably like the last thing you need when upset. You seemed to be less tense though, so I kept going? I don’t-“

“Hey, stop.” Keith smiles sincerely at Lance, and waves around the now much appreciated coffee. “Thank you, I’m feeling much better. But you don’t have to go out of your way to make sure of that, okay? I’m always fine in the end.”

Sighing, Lance lets his arms fall and rolls his eyes. “Shut up, Mullet. Whether you like it or not, you’re my friend and I actually somehow give a shit about you. You may not know it, but you a hundred percent signed up for me to be ultra-overbearing without any consent. Get used to it, my man.” There’s a beat of silence. “Anyway, remember you can always come talk to me, yeah? Or, hell, if not me talk to Shiro or Hunk. I’m sure they’d be overjoyed to help. You’re not… you’re not alone, okay?”

He knew Lance was just trying to be nice, to be there for him and all that other best friend bullshit. Keith hated how uncomfortable it makes him, can’t help how awkward his body language becomes and the frown that kinda just… appears. He still tries though, smiling the best he can and responding with a half-hearted ‘okay’.

Sensing the shift in tension, Lance bubbles up again and bounces forwards. Ruffling Keith’s coal black hair before dodging the swat to his hand and calling back, “Bye Mullet! Don’t think too hard, you’ll confuse your poor brain!”

“The hell do you mean ‘bye’? You’re going to be right at the register?” Lance doesn’t respond, so Keith just swerves back in his seat, facing the table and his laptop once again with a ghost of a smile on his lips. “Alright, _bye_ Lance.” The troubling notebook sat beside him, forgotten for the moment as he sipped on his coffee gingerly and pulled up Word on his laptop. He missed the warm contented smile that Lance had on just for him, proud of himself for taking his friend’s mind off whatever was in that notebook, even if just for now.

“Stop ogling Keith and get to work,” Allura pops up out of nowhere, and while the words were meant to come out with authority it came out more as a friendly jab. The taunting grin on her face giving her away.

Lance yelps in surprise, jerking away from her and screeching a sharply pitched, “Allura!” Just as he was about to smack her shoulder as payback, a certain laugh carries out from a certain booth. One that has his attention before he can even raise a hand. Body going lax, Lance sneaks a peek over at Keith, then reluctantly looks back at Allura.

Groaning at her knowing look, Lance throws his head back and finally shoves at her shoulder lightly before taking his place behind the register once again. “Shut up, I’m working.”

Scoffing, a middle-aged man clad in your stereotypical black dress suit that’s paired with a tri-striped tie and a balding haircut rolls his eyes in distaste. “This is what working looks like? I’ll have you know, I work in a very large corporation that actually knows what hard earned money looks like, and has the decency to understand the word ‘effort’. If you could please stop dilly-dallying about like a couple of school girls, I would like to have my order taken now.”

Standing up taller than the self-absorbed man ever could, Allura’s eyes harden in a frightening manner. Her luminescent eyes calculate the man before her, a sickly-sweet smile painting her face once she’s gathered all she needs to know just from his outfit (mainly the work badge attached to the suit jacket).

“You work for Altea Tech? What a lovely company, I’m so proud of my father for building it from the ground. Just as I built this successful café from the dust beneath my feet. My name is Allura Altea, pleasure to meet your acquaintance Mr…?”

“Caulfield, Ma’am, John Caulfield. I apologize sincerely for my tone, it has been a rough morning. Not that that is any excuse to treat you like that!” The man was fumbling over his words more than an inexperienced athlete fumbles in football. If the darting of his eyes were anything to go by, Lance knows that this Mr. Caulfield knows that Allura has metaphorically got him by his neck.

“Well, Mr. Caulfield, I’m sure you truly are very sorry now that you understand you’re speaking to someone you’re aware has many connections. Think before you speak, sir, you never know when you may get the short end of the stick. Now, Lance, kindly assist this man, you and I will speak later.” Allura maintains her broad stance, once again giving the man a onceover, before turning on her heels and calmly walking away.

Lance slowly whistles, chuckling underneath his breath while shaking his head in amusement. “Your ass just got fucking _burnt_ by the boss lady, dude. I’d feel sorry for you and make this on the house, but,” He laughs again, not bothering to finish his sentence. “Alright, what can I do for you? And before you ask, no, pride and dignity cannot be bought.”

“Large black coffee.”

“How fitting. One large black coffee coming up! And which brew would you like today?”

By the time Lance had the coffee poured and handed the paper cup over to the man, morning rush hour was beginning to slow down into the odd lull in between breakfast and lunch. Thankfully enough, Mr. Burned By Boss Lady was the second to last customer.

Completing the tall order of four varying drink for a young woman who seemed to be dressed for an internship, Lance flashes a flirtatious smile her way and slides the drinks over. “So, do you come here often?”

“Oh, um,” The woman awkwardly fixes the strap to her bag and grabs the tray of coffees. “No this is my first time, I was just told by the man in charge to come down here to get him and some other guys in a meeting some coffee.”

“Well, hopefully it’s not your last. Stick around next time? For me?” He pulls off the best puppy look that he can, and the woman shifts ungracefully again.

“Uh, Idon’tlikedickorcoffeesoimmajustgo. Thank you though!” She’s quick to grab the coffees and then bolt out, muttering under her breath about something that Lance’s pride is too wounded to listen to.

“ _Ouch._ ”

Groaning, Lance turns around and leans up against the counter with his arms folded and one leg crossed over the other. “Allura, I swear if I hear one more word come out of your mouth that has to do with who I’m interested in, I will battle you to the death.”

“Get ready to throw down, then, because you skipped out on me during morning rush hour and you’re gonna have to deal with the consequences.”

“If it wasn’t for a noble cause, princess, you would have dragged my ass behind the counter by the ear. What do you mean consequences?!”

“Noble cause? Which was?”

“I made him smile.”

Allura pretends to throw confetti, even throwing in a sarcastic bow for good measure. “The great Lance McClain has once again made Keith Kogane smile, this daily accomplishment fails to lose its nobility.”

“The hell do you mean daily? Mullet is always moody and brooding, it’s like he never got over his emo teenage phase.”

“I cannot believe he’s this daft,” Allura mutters under her breath, face contorted in disbelief. “You must be joking, right? Do you even see the way he looks at you? He may not know it, but his face and tone softens every time it’s obvious that you’re showing some care. He bounces off of you wonderfully when you two are bantering, and he gives you the bedroom eyes every time you bend down to pick something up!”

“That’s enough of that!” Lance yells, cutting her off before she can go any further than she already has. There’s no denying that he’s flustered beyond belief, his cheeks having blossomed a glaringly bright shade of pink. “Nope, didn’t see it, don’t remember it, that’s not happening! Stop interfering with my love life now, please and thank you, and goodbye!”

“Oh Lance, Lance, Lance,” Allura says slowly in mock sympathy as she pats his shoulder. “As your best friend since primary school, you must understand that you have signed up for me being overbearing without your consent. It is my duty and honor to mess with you every time you have a crush, especially if I give my blessing.”

“Stop listening to his and I’s conversations!” Lance whisper shouts, shoving her hand off his shoulder. “And what do you mean, ‘give your blessing’? Have you not met Keith? Keith Kogane? Always grumpy, and brooding? Rambles for hours about how our government is not only run by reptiles, but also aliens and the illuminati? Keith who doesn’t understand what a social life is, and ruins frozen lasagna? You sure we both know the same Keith?”

Out of nowhere, a different voice joins in the conversation from on top of the counter. Shortest of the friend group, Pidge Holt has an almost menacing grin on their face. “Oooh, we talking about Lance’s failure to accept when he actually likes someone? What’s happened now?”

“No! We are not talking about that, Pidge, because I just ended that conversation! You two are a couple of vultures, you know that?”

“Oh come on guys, stop messing with Lance’s love life. He’ll ask Keith out when he’s ready.”

“Yes! Thank you Hunk- Wait no! _No!_ Stop it!” Lance points an accusing finger at the larger man, who’s name is suitable for his body type. While Pidge is more on the scrawny side, Hunk is broadly built with enough muscle to pick up an eighteen-wheeler with ease. Despite his book cover seeming threatening, Hunk is a softy with a heart of gold.

“Okay okay!” Hunk puts his hands up in surrender. “We’re just here to grab some breakfast and see if you two and Keith are still coming over tomorrow night. I’ve already got confirmation that Shiro is coming.”

“Of course, Hunk, we wouldn’t back out on you.” Allura replies kindly, wearing her usual friendly smile.

“Can’t make any promises about Mullet, though. Watch out he’s moody.” Lance grumbles, back still to the counter despite the fact Pidge has started giggling.

“Why is it you feel it’s so vital that you call me ‘Mullet’?” Keith groans out, his bag slung over his shoulder as indication that he was about to bolt out of there before Hunk could ask if he was still on for tomorrow.

“Would you prefer Mr. Emo Author Conspiracy Theorist?” Lance replies sassily, turning around in a bored manner to face him. Once their eyes lock he’s caught off guard. Keith is staring at him, wide eyed and gaping. There’s a subtle shake to his hands which are gripping deathly tight onto the small notebook. “Uh, did I say something?” The cockiness has faded from his voice, instead becoming laced with concern.

Scowling, Keith turns to Hunk to mutter a quick, “Wouldn’t miss it, big guy.” Then just like that, he’s rushing out of the café and speed walking past the window outside with his head down.

“What did I do?” A present meekness has taken over Lance’s normally confident personality, his shoulders slumped and his lips dipped down in a disappointed and guilty frown.

“That was weird, even for him,” Pidge mutters, shaking her own head in disbelief. Only confirming Lance’s worries about the man’s sudden escape.

“Maybe ask Shiro, hun.” Allura says gently, patting his shoulder while shooting Pidge a scolding look. “He may just be having an off day, I don’t think you did anything wrong.”

“Nah it’s cool, sometimes people can’t take a little bit of smooth creativity,” Lance expresses with a forced cockiness, shrugging her hand off and pridefully turning towards the register again. Had it not been for the fact a customer conveniently sent the bell above the door jingling, the three friends would have continued to voice their assurances. However, all they can do is share a mutually worried look and carry on with their day.


	2. Chapter 2

With the café’s sign turned to a boldly red lettered ‘Closed’, and the front doors locked to keep people from attempting to bribe him into allowing them in after hours, Lance has opted to blast his own personal music in place of the usual soft spoken instrumental songs that play during open hours. A majority of the tracks he has chosen are mainly Shakira, along with a couple other Latin artists thrown in that Keith personally doesn’t recognize.

Said author hasn’t offered Lance so much as a wave all day long. He had strategically waited for another worker to take over at the register before getting up to order, and has stuck to his own little nook in the corner of the café for the past few hours. Not once has the man even spared a glance in Lance’s general direction, much less meet his eye and explain what the hell had taken place the day before that’s made him so reserved.

Part of Lance is harboring a sort of spite towards Keith’s actions, a sour flavor drowning his taste buds every time he catches sight of him. After all, as far as Lance is concerned he hasn’t done a thing to deserve the coldshoulder. However, another part of him is anxious beyond measurement. Had he done to make Keith ignore his mere existence, and is just too inept to realize it? What did he say? Why was it Keith seemed in such a hurry to get out of there the moment Lance opened his mouth? Why is it he can’t seem to keep something going good for more than five minutes before he manages to somehow, someway, fuck it all up within .2 seconds? The only consolation he has that’s keeping him from marching up to Keith and demanding an answer is the fact that everyone else had seemed to be just as equally confused as himself.

Shoving the negative thoughts aside, Lance wipes down the front counter whilst softly humming along to the music. He hasn’t bothered to ask Keith (who has been sitting at his respective table glaring at both his laptop screen and notebook for quite some time now) if he minded the music. Instead, he’s decided to allow himself to enjoy this. All day he’s been fretting over what Keith thinks, and why Keith acts the way he does. Been tossing idea after idea up in his head on how he’d done the man wrong, only to come up short.

Without warning the music overhead crackles, followed by a deafening crash of thunder that almost sends a startled Lance tumbling to the floor. Squeaking, he clutches the damp washcloth to his chest and turns to look out the large windows framing every chair that’s near a wall. Heart dropping, he takes in the sudden shift of atmosphere. The sky blanketed in furious deep grey storm clouds that have blocked out the sun.

“Oh, fuck me,” Lance complains under his breath, wincing at another horrific crackle that blares out via the speakers. Generally, this isn’t an issue the café encounters, mainly because Allura has sense enough to have all the music downloaded, so that if it does storm a lack of internet access won’t cause customer’s ears to bleed.

Rushing to the break room, Lance is quick to unplug his phone from the system. Effectively cutting off the horrendous crackling noise that was two seconds away from driving him to complete homicidal levels of insanity. The unmistakable sound of pouring rain beating down on the roof above his head is now obvious with the music shut off. _How the hell am I supposed to get home in this kind of weather?_ Groaning, he buries his face in his hands and silently counts to ten before dragging himself back out to the front.

“Florida weather; utterly unpredictable and almost always disappointing. Although, there was a sixty percent chance of rain, which by Florida standards means ‘it’s gonna fucking rain, prepare yourself’.” Scowling, Lance looks up to face Keith and crosses his arms over his chest in an unimpressed fashion.

“Oh, are we talking now? Because, as far as I was concerned, I had somehow disappeared out of thin air and was only visible to literally everyone but you. Which, now that I think about it, probably made your little conspiracy theorist dick hard. How was it watching floating trays and coffee cups all day, huh? Got a whole section written up about the invisible man, now? How’s it feel to be talking to the one and only in person? Careful, cover your crotch, little Keith is growing as much as he can.”

“Incredible.”

“Damn right I am.”

“You have somehow gotten even more dramatic and obnoxious in a mere twenty-four hours, this must be a new record for you.”

“Oh fuck _off_ , Mullet!” Lance exclaims, throwing his hands into the air angrily. He drops them and points an accusing finger at the man, face contorted into one of irritation. Though, there’s a drop of loss and confusion in his eyes, which is all that’s keeping Keith from blowing up in return. He may not be the best at social interaction, and reading people may be a struggle for him, but he’s observed Lance long enough to know the difference between anger and hurt.

“You have been ignoring me all fucking day! I don’t know what I did to you, but I have been worried sick that I somehow completely messed up whatever friendship you and I have got! As far as I knew, your socially incompetent ass was going to just leave it at that and never speak to me again! You’ve got some explaining to do, Mullet, because you had the nerve to approach me and I am not about to let this go.” 

“Listen, I’m sorry about today, alright? And I’m sorry that I stormed out without warning yesterday. But I don’t feel like I have to explain myself to you.”

Shoulders drooping, Lance laughs under his breath and shakes his head in disbelief. Harshly wiping at the accumulating tears in his eyes, he internally screams at himself. _Don’t you dare cry you sensitive fuck, don’t you dare don’t you dare don’t you dare._ Inhaling shakily, he blinks away the oncoming tears of frustration, slowly nodding as he exhales with a bit more control over his breathing.

 He then flashes a sarcastic smile Keith’s way and responds in a voice that’s sickeningly light and airy, “You know what? You are a hundred and fifty percent right. There is zero contract that is demanding that you explain yourself, or that you for a second actually sound sincere when apologizing. I am so very glad that I have been mentally beating myself up all day, worrying myself sick over what happened and wishing I knew what I could do to fix it, only to come to this conclusion. But you’re right, Keith. I am not deserving of a proper answer, and I am clearly not a close enough friend to you after, oh, what, three years? I deeply apologize for being so misled. Now, if you would please leave, the café is closed and you aren’t allowed here after hours unless Allura is here.”

“Wait, come on Lance it’s storming out there, be reasonable and listen to what you’re saying!”

Scoffing, Lance stares at Keith in astonishment. “After all I just said, that’s the only thing you took from it? That you may have to ride home in the rain?”

“No! _No._ I don’t even care about that! I just, it’s not you, okay? The wording came out all wrong, and I’m sorry, and I swear it isn’t you. My not wanting to say what it’s about doesn’t have anything to do with you, or this friendship, or anything of that sort. It’s just hard to explain, and I don’t fully understand it myself yet. I promise, when the time is right I will do my best to explain everything. But right now, my head is still spinning at a million miles per hour, there’s dozens of missing puzzle pieces, and I don’t even know where I would start even if I did decide to indulge you right now.” The sheer panic that has taken over Keith’s usual broody and careless features nearly sends a chill down Lance’s spine. The worker stands there guiltily, hands stuffed in his pockets and shoulders drawn in tight.

“I just,” Keith covers his face in exhaustion, attempting to take deep breaths. “I can be such a dick, and I shouldn’t have ignored you but I just didn’t- “

“Hey,” Lance pulls his hands out of his pockets and leans over the counter to grip onto Keith’s thin wrists. Pulling the hands back, thus forcing Keith to look him in the eyes as Lance continues gripping them in midair. “You are a hundred percent a dick for ignoring me, but I’m a dick too for pushing you. We’re both at fault here, and we’ve got some communication problems. You get defensive fast and it can come off as hostile and careless, and in response to that I became defensive as well. I’m sorry for pushing you, I didn’t realize it was affecting you as intensely as it was. In the heat of the moment, all I wanted was answers, and I felt you were leading me to believe I wasn’t worthy of any.” With that off his chest, Lance slowly pulls back, gently releasing his hold on the other man and standing straight once again.

If there was a flourishing crimson blush on either of their cheeks, neither were jumping to mention it.

Nodding his head, Keith crossed his arms over his chest and smiles sadly at Lance. “Sorry for giving you the coldshoulder, and making you feel as if this friendship was crumbling.”

“Ugh, Mullet, I hate it when you get all sentimental. Go back to sending people to Hell with your scowl, it’s so much easier to handle,” Lance expresses jokingly, picking up the washcloth from the counter so he can get back to work. “Apologetic isn’t a good look on you, Mullet, really. Starting to feel bad for making fun of you for being such an emo, I’m starting to realize how suiting it is.”

“Hey!” Keith squawks, rearing back in offense. “We were having a bonding moment, stop ruining these things!”

“A bonding moment? What’s a bonding moment? I have no clue what you’re talking about.” Keith goes to retort, but Lance starts loudly whistling the tune to Hips Don’t Lie before he can, a shit eating grin curling up on his face as he starts wiping down the last of the tables. Chuckling in mild disbelief, Keith decides against complaining, sending Lance a relieved smile instead. To which, Lance winks at, before promptly looking down with a blush dusting his cheeks. Busying himself with the tables once again.

Assuming that Lance is no longer kicking him out to ride back home in the storm, Keith takes it upon himself to pour himself a black coffee behind the counter. Slipping four dollars into the cash register to cover for it. Taking his seat back in the corner of the café, Keith spares a look at the small notebook that has been the catalyst to the passing events. He slips it into his pocket, having instantly come to the conclusion that it’s caused him enough stress for the day.

A good forty-five minutes pass, filled with the sounds of fingers clicking across a keyboard, harsh rainfall, and roaring thunder. The lights flickered only a couple times, both times startling Lance into squeaking, which lead to Keith to mocking him, which would inevitably lead to both of them doubling over in laughter. There’s seemingly permanent smiles gracing both of their faces, and Lance just knows that if Allura goes back over the security footage he’ll never hear the end of it.

Emptying the dustpan, Lance takes a look outside and sighs at the unrelenting weather. He’d checked up on the weather earlier, and wasn’t shocked to read they were having a tropical storm that could last up to two hours. Normally, he’d be loving this kind of weather. Storms, thunder, lightning, all those wonderful things, are usually fascinating and calming for him. However, today he just so happens to have somewhere to go. Therefore, this storm is more of an inconvenience than anything.

“So, how are we supposed to get to Hunk’s with the weather like this? I’m a starving artist, I don’t have a car.” Lance finally speaks up once done putting away the broom and dustpan.

Humming, Keith looks out the window as well and shrugs non-helpfully. “My bike has compartments to keep my laptop and such safe, so if you don’t mind getting soaked we can take that. I’ve ridden in the rain plenty of times, I just prefer not to because everyone seems to forget how to drive the second there’s a little bit of moisture on the ground.”

“Are you saying you aren’t a hundred percent sure of how safe it would be? Because I am not getting on that thing if you can’t guarantee my safety.”

“Nah, we’ll be fine. I’m an excellent driver, thank you very much. I’m just saying it involves getting soaked, and I would just _hate_ for your makeup to run.”

“I’ll have you know I take offense to that. I am not wearing makeup right now, but if I was I would be wearing _waterproof_ makeup. You insult my ability to preplan and come prepared.”

“My sincerest of apologies,” Keith snickers, shaking his head. “But really, do you wanna call him up and tell him we’ll either be late or won’t make it, or do you want to go get rained on? Either one I’m down with, it’s up to you at this point.”

“Well,” Lance frowns, eyebrows furrowing in contemplation as he takes a seat across from Keith. “I had been hoping to get changed into something other than work clothes before heading down to his place, but at this point I don’t think I’ve got much choice. Besides, I’m sure there’s quite a few of my own clothes at his place from us pulling all-nighters for exams.”

“Is this… you saying you want to go down there right now?” The question comes out slow, although it isn’t mocking. More confused than anything else. He had been expecting a yes or no response, not an essay.

“Yeah yeah, sorry,” Lance chuckles awkwardly. “But I’m gonna check in with him first to make sure there isn’t any change in plans. Knowing him, there isn’t. He probably guessed that this storm was going to happen like, a month ago. The fuckin smart ass.”

 As per usual, Lance speaks fondly of his best friend. He’s known Hunk since birth, since their families are close friends they lived practically right next to one another their whole lives. They watched one another grow up, make mistakes, have relationships that would go horribly wrong. They watched one another carve their own path in the world. Both attended the same schools, all the way up through college. Only difference now is, Hunk is working his way up to a Master’s degree, and Lance called it quits after earning an Associate’s.

“Yeah, that’s not a bad idea. Don’t you guys usually play videogames or whatever when he hosts these little get togethers? Wouldn’t that be a little difficult if the internet goes out?”

“Hmm?” Lance looks up from where he was typing out a quick text to Hunk, appearing apologetic as he registered what Keith had said. “Oh, yeah! But even if we can’t do online competitive, I can still beat their asses with it just being us. I’m also forcing you to play with us for once, I pride myself in beating everyone’s ass in Overwatch, and I have yet to beat yours which is truly a shame.” He can’t help himself, he smirks at the unintentional innuendo. “Besides, there’s a character on there that is just perfect for you.”

Lips tilted down, Keith raises an eyebrow and inquires, “What makes you think I want to play videogames?”

“Uh, because you agreed to come with, and you need to be apart of the group activities for once? You’ve been in this friend group for, what, three to four years? And all you ever do is sit in the sidelines, and give your occasional comment on something? All jokes aside, I think it’d genuinely be fun if you just, hung out with us for once instead of just existing around us.” Lance’s phone pings; _No change in plans, you two can still come over. The others are already here, and dinner is almost ready. So be quick before Pidge and Shiro eat all the cookies!_ “Also, uh, Hunk says there’s no change in plans, we’re good to go.”

To be honest, Keith hasn’t properly played a videogame _ever_. The only interaction he’s had with videogames was watching Shiro play them. Of course, Shiro being the kind guy he is, he’d always offer the second controller to Keith with an encouraging grin. But, Keith always rejected the offer with a wave of his hand and a far less convincing smile. He’d never really gone through a videogame phase, much preferring to be outside in the middle of the woods. Where, he could sit with his dozens of notebooks which contained hundreds of notes on the world he had created there.

Yet, still, something in him didn’t have the heart to shoot Lance down. “Yeah, I’ll probably join in tonight. But watch out, I may be a born natural. Your kicking of ass just might have to wait.”

“Yeah right!” Lance exclaims giddily, hyping himself up over the fact that Keith might actually interact with them all for once. “You’d have to be out of your mind to think I’d go easy on you. I don’t care how new you are to the game, there is zero room for remorse!” Voice loud and triumphant, he punctuates it with a fist to the air as he jumps out of his seat. “Now, let’s go get poured on so I can show you what a master looks like.”

“Kinky,” Keith mutters, also sliding out of his seat. Back to Lance, he slides his laptop into it’s waterproof case along with the notebook he had out. Missing the way Lance looked to the ceiling and opened his mouth in a silent scream.

_Why must he make these unnecessary comments that are completely out of his nature? That’s it, I’m throwing myself in front of a bus the next time he does that, I do not have the strength to make it out of this alive._

“Okay,” Keith turns around with the bag over his shoulder, watching in confusion as Lance quickly moves back to a normal standing position. “Uh, ready to go?”

“Readier than you’ll ever be! Let’s go Mullet!”

**********************

“I regret everything,” Lance wheezes out dramatically, scrambling off the back of the motorcycle gracelessly and relishing in the feeling of concrete beneath his feet. Tearing the helmet off, he reveals his commonly well-maintained hair that is now sticking out in a variety of directions. None of which are flat, like they’re supposed to be.

Wearing a cocky grin, Keith slides off his own helmet with far more delicacy than Lance had. His own hair isn’t looking fantastically put together, but it’s still a thousand times neater than his passenger’s. Granted, even is his own hair was a mess, he still wouldn’t regret anything.

 Once the two of them were on the road, the driver was acutely aware of how empty the roads had become. The approximate hour that they had spent in the café as the storm was passing by seemed to of given them time to beat a majority of the traffic. Having had his motorcycle license for at least four years, Keith knows he’s a damn fantastic driver that can safely go a little (a lot) over the speed limit without it hurting anyone. Especially if he takes a couple of abandoned backroads that he knows like the back of his hand.

In other words, Lance has never been on a motorcycle in his life, and Keith knows the ins and outs of riding one to the point where he can break many rules.

“Wow, no thank you or anything?” The inquiry is dripping with sarcasm and mock offense, the author putting his hand over his heart as if he’d just been wounded. “ _Thank you Keith, you’re so amazing Keith, you always look out for me Keith, I wouldn’t of been able to get here tonight without you Keith.”_

“Ah ah ah!” Lance proclaims loudly, poking Keith’s chest in a protest. “You do not get to use my words against me, Mullet! You take that back, and you find some creativity to replace it!”

“How dare you insult my creativity? I’ll have you know my profession is being an author, which demands creativity! I resent what you have accused me of!” Keith pulls his laptop out of the back compartment, returning the strap to over his shoulder before he starts walking to the elevator inside the carpark.

Dramatically gasping in response, Lance jogs to catch up with him. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I am very conflicted about how I feel about this side of you Kogane. You’re acting a little too…”

“Acting a little too much like you, McClain?”

“Ohhoho, we are just full of jokes tonight, aren’t we?”

“Mmm, sure if you thinking I was kidding helps you sleep at night.”

“Put your fists up, Mullet, I’m about to fuckin throw down.”

“I’m a black belt, have fun with that.”

“And I’m an expert at knowing how to do all the cool shit that videogame characters do, so watch who you’re challenging.”

Grinning, Keith steals a glance at Lance before clicking the button for the fourth floor. “You ran out of things to threaten me with, didn’t you?”

“Shut up.”

“I’m taking that as a yes, and I’m adding it to my long extensive list of beautiful victories. Thank you for practically handing that one to me, Lance. While I don’t need your charity, it’s still nice to have a smooth win every once in a while.”

Grumbling under his breath, Lance feigns being upset by stepping away from Keith childishly and crossing his arms over his chest with a huff. Despite his attempts to appear upset with his ‘loss’, he prominently wears a dead giveaway in the form of a small yet lively smile.

They’re made aware that it’s their stop with the helpful ding of the elevator, both stepping off the contraption in sync. Fishing out his key to Hunk’s apartment from his back pocket, Lance proudly brandishes it in Keith’s face and skips ahead of him. “Keep up before I lock you out!”

“You and I both know that Hunk is far too nice to let you do that, he’d let me in in a heartbeat and to go the extra mile he’d give me your share of whatever he’s baked for dessert.”

“Shit, he’s right,” Lance whispers.

“As per usual,” Keith responds, plucking the key out of Lance’s hand and beating him to the apartment door. He knocks once so that no one will be startled when they barge in, before unlocking and swinging it open. Of course, just as he’s about to step inside and properly announce their presence, Lance blurs past him and ungracefully pushes him against the doorframe so that he can get in first.

“I win!” Lance whoops, jumping up and down and doing a little victory dance that involves far too many shoulder and hip movements.

“I didn’t know we were racing!” Keith cries indignantly, rubbing the shoulder that made impact with the not-so gentle solid wooden doorframe. He proceeds to shut the front door before someone comes out of their apartment and complains about the yelling. Pocketing the key, Keith makes a mental reminder that he needs to remember return it to Lance or Hunk at some point.

“Mullet, you’ve really got to keep up! When are you going to learn that everything is a competition and you always need to be on your toes and prepared to throw down!”

“That is not how competitions work, Lance. A proper competition, or race, needs an announcement and a countdown! Not to mention, I’m positive that shoving me out of the way the moment you had a clear shot is definitely foul play, which means you are disqualified. Therefore, I win, you lose, ha!”

“So… I take it the two of you have worked things out?” Keith turns to face his foster brother, wearing a scowl that contradicts the man’s statement. Shiro throws his hands up in surrender, chuckling softly. “Alright, so you haven’t. You’re both just acting the same way you were before for the sake of your friends, right?”

“Oh no, Keith isn’t a good enough actor for that,” Lance pipes up, making his way into the living room. Passing by Shiro with an artificial sympathetic pat to his shoulder. “Sorry, Dad.”

“Please stop calling me Dad.”

“Okay, Daddy.”

“We made up, but I’m five seconds away from giving him the coldshoulder again. I cannot befriend someone who treats competition so poorly, this is serious business!” It’s evident that Keith is just joking, given the way he overexaggerates his phrasing and the hand motions that are paired with it.

“Oh my word,” Shiro whispers gravely, approaching Keith quickly and cupping his face. He starts feeling his cheeks and forehead, as if making sure he doesn’t have a fever. “Who are you and what have you done with Keith?”

Snorting in confusion, Keith pulls back and wipes off his face as though Shiro had dirtied it. “What the hell are you on about?”

“Well just between you and I, replacement Keith, the Keith I knew didn’t have a sense of humor and became defensive at the drop of a hat.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!”

“Oh wait, I stand corrected, you’re Keith.” Shiro’s face contorts into a look of fabricated disappointment before he turns on his heel and starts walking away, leaving Keith fishing for a response.

“We will discuss this later!” Not receiving a word in response, Keith grouches quietly about how he can’t believe he surrounds himself with such bullies before reluctantly following the path of Lance and Shiro into the living room.

Just about everyone is gathered around in the quaint little living room that’s truly not designed to fit 6 young adults, but Hunk has somehow worked his magic, and set it up so that it works. Pidge is seated cross legged dead center on the worn couch, laptop positioned flat on their lap as they type at a furious pace that Keith can only dream of being able to type at. Allura is seated next to them, seeming genuinely intrigued by the speed their fingers are going, and listening intently to what they’re rambling on about. Shiro is lounging on the equally as worn-down loveseat, his phone camera out with the front one facing him to use as a mirror so he can fix his eyeliner; while also doing his best to explain his techniques to Lance without ruining his handy work. Considering the little clashing noises coming from the kitchen, Hunk is still at work with dinner.

Keith navigates around the loveseat, tempted to bump the hand that Shiro’s using to apply his eyeliner, but deciding against it. After all, while Keith may be a black belt, Shiro is built like the soldier he is.

He’s a Marine of 6 years, went in a dreaming and compassionate eighteen year old before receiving an honorable discharge as a tainted twenty-four year old after an incident on the battlefield that lead to the loss of his right arm. Thankfully, having come from a wealthy family Shiro was able to get a top of the line mechanical arm to replace it. That had been a horrible time for everyone, Shiro’s entire demeanor changed for a good four months before he started to show some signs of emotional recovery. It’s been a year since then, and Shiro has gotten significantly better. Not fully healed, but also able to laugh and hang out with friends as he did before everything had gone wrong. The compassionate and dreamer outlook remains with him, even after all that happened.

Keith unceremoniously flops down onto the blue beanbag chair situated in front of the small flat screen television, pulling his phone out once he’s comfortable. He attempts subtly watching Shiro and Lance, unable to hold down the steadily growing warm fiery feeling that spreads throughout his chest as he watches the two interact. Lance had gotten ahold of Shiro’s eyeliner, holding it up in the air with a beaming smile on his face as he attempts to convince the man to let him try.

“Shiro, I think I’ve got it now! I promise, I won’t mess it up! And if I do, which I won’t, but _if_ , don’t you have makeup wipes?”

“Lance, a makeup wipe would take off my foundation and eyeshadow as well! Then part of my face would look different from the rest! I would have to take it all off, and I did not spend two fucking hours on a smoky-eye, just for you to experiment! Try it on Keith, or something! And use a different one, that’s my good eyeliner.”

“Shiro, you call all of your eyeliners your ‘good eyeliners’,” Pidge points out, finally looking up from their laptop screen to watch the scene unfold. “Also, why can’t Lance try on you? I’m sure Allura has makeup you can borrow.”

Both Shiro and Allura turn to give Pidge an ‘you’ve got to be kidding, please be kidding’ look.

“You’re about to say something that’s gonna make me look and feel like a moron, aren’t you?” Pidge deflates, shutting their laptop lid and gripping onto it for dear life. If there’s one thing that they hate most, it’s when people prove them wrong. Because they are very rarely wrong, and pride themselves in their extensive knowledge.

“Honey…” Allura says slowly, patting Pidge’s leg. “Pidge, I’m _black_ , and Shiro isn’t. My dark foundation would be very very racist on his face, just as his light foundation would be very very racist on my face. But thank you for trying to help out, that was very nice of you! I know that as someone who doesn’t do makeup, you probably didn’t know that there’s diverse types for different skin tones.”

Slowly, Pidge takes off their large round glasses, and drops their face in their hands before groaning at an obnoxious volume. “I feel like the literal dumbest person in all of existence right now. Leave me here to die, I would like to silently disappear through the floor now.”

“I would like to point out that even I knew that?” Keith calls from the floor, raising his hand some before dropping it back on his lap.

“You’re his brother, you don’t count!”

“He only picked up makeup after the Marine Corp, first of all, and second of all, do you think I ever listened to a damn thing he had to say about how makeup works?”

Offended, Shiro turns to face Keith, “You never listened?! Keith, I gave you advice on how to cover up hickies! I was being so helpful, and you didn’t listen?!”

“I hate to say this, but Shiro, when was the last time I even had a relationship? Why on earth would I need advice on how to cover up hickies?”

Grumbling, Shiro just turns back to Pidge with a small pout on his lips. “Anyway, as good of an idea as that could have been, Pidge, Allura and I have very different products for our skin. So, Lance, no you cannot fix my eyeliner, I’m fixing my eyeliner, and you can talk Keith into letting you use him or something.”

“Yeah, when hell freezes over.” Keith protests, shooting Shiro a glare.

“But please!” Lance cries dramatically. “We have makeup wipes, and it isn’t like you’re wearing any precious makeup that you don’t want messed up! If you hate it, you can just take it off! Consider this an apology for being a dick to me earlier.”

Well. Sighing in defeat, Keith just waves his hand carelessly and nods. “Fine, but I’m taking it off once you’re finished. I hate the feeling of makeup on my face, Shiro has already tried this with me and it’s awful.”

“That’s because I did eyeshadow and everything, Keith, eyeliner isn’t that bad,” Shiro points out, finally pocketing his phone and handing a different container of eyeliner to an ecstatic Lance.  

“I will gouge your eyes out with a mascara brush, Takashi, try me.”

“Always so violent!”

For once, Keith doesn’t bother retorting. Instead, he’s distracted by his heart seizing up as Lance drags up the red beanbag chair and sits directly in front of him so that their knees are touching. Eyes wide and shoulders tense, he unintentionally rears back as Lance leans forwards with the liner pen in hand. Frowning, Lance pulls back.

“Uh, Mullet? I kinda have to be able to reach your eye in order to do this. And you have to close your eyes as well, unless you want it to be way too high up.”

“Huh? Oh, uh,” Keith coughs into his fist awkwardly and sits up straight. Reluctantly, he shuts his eyes, screwing them up tight.

“Mullet, relax. That isn’t going to work either. You can’t be so tense! Stop being so scared, I’m really not bad at this!”

_When is Hunk going to be done with the food, can he please save me I would like to be saved from this ohnohono._ Slowly, He loosens up and braces himself for contact. It takes every fiber in Keith’s being to not tense up again once Lance’s hand in on his face, pulling at his eyelid to thoroughly apply the makeup. Much to Keith’s luck, it only lasted a couple minutes before Lance was proudly pulling back and exclaiming, “Perfect!”

“You know,” Pidge starts “That was the perfect opportunity to draw a penis on his forehead, and you completely passed that up. I’m disappointed in you, Lance.”

“Shh, I know, I’ll get him next time. Now admire how great I did!”

Keith blinks open his eyes, pulling out his phone to see what he looks like. Thankfully, Pidge wasn’t lying about Lance passing up the opportunity to completely mess his face up. Alternatively, there are two delicately drawn on cat eyes, of which he’d never admit out loud that it genuinely looks nice. Nothing he’d wear every day, but also not something he’s entirely opposed to.

Turning, he faces the rest of the group and strikes a little pose which elicits a laugh from everyone including a little one from himself. “How do I look?”

“I did okay, right?” Lance pipes up, not nearly as confident as he was before.

Shiro crosses his arms, pretending to be deep in thought. “Hmm…” Upon Keith rolling his eyes, Shiro chuckles and nods his head. “Yeah, it looks good. I may let you do mine next time.”

“Yes!” Triumphant, Lance punches the air before bounding towards Shiro and handing the liner to him. “You stand corrected! Points for Lance!”

“Really, it is quite a good look,” Allura says, her tone both astonished and impressed.

Prideful smile still on his face, Lance pulls the red beanbag farther away from Keith to its original place in front of the television and plops down on top of it. “I am a master of my craft, what can I say?”

Snorting, Keith shakes his head fondly. “I’ll wear it for the rest of the night if you shut your ego up.”

“Deal!”

Just moments after, Hunk is walking in with containers of food and requesting that someone help him. Lance and Shiro both volunteer, helping him carry in dishes and snacks and cramming them all onto the little coffee table. The group of friends were soon all munching on homemade nachos, and lightheartedly taking jabs at one another as they played competitively.

Oh, and Keith most definitely wasn’t a natural at Overwatch. Lance is never going to let him live this down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #LetShiroWearMakeupAndBeMasculine2k17
> 
> This... this was so long.  
> Heads up, I don't know how often I'll be updating, but my goal is once a week! Don't hold me to that, though, please. Before, I was writing 2k word chapters, and I thought those were insanely long. Now I've started writing again, and they're getting up to 6k. The change is an extreme surprise.
> 
> Also btw, Lance made Keith play Reaper aha.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Made a watercolor piece for this fic, of which you can find on my tumblr right heeere:  
>  http://katey-opalescent.tumblr.com/post/162105059873/finished-the-keef-in-a-kafe-drawing-for-my-klance

_“Sometimes I wonder if I’ll… if I’ll ever be good enough, you know? For you, for us. I just, I haven’t been in a proper relationship since you-know-who, and I guess three years of her consistently venomous and toxic words have stuck around subconsciously. Reiterating around in the back of my mind, and popping up when I have a particularly difficult day. They tear me down, and I don’t want them to do that anymore. But, how can you stop your brain from thinking about things? Especially the things you believe. Everyone keeps telling me not to take anything she said to heart, that she was an abusive and manipulative bitch. Which, is true, but damn was she good at accomplishing her goal. Attacked all the things that I was already beating myself up over, solidifying my own thoughts with her assurances.”_

_Calmly, unsure of what to say verbally that would make the other feel better, Keith pulls them into his arms and rests their head on his shoulder. Swaying the two back and forth leisurely, hoping that the utter unconditional love that flows through his veins is being accurately conveyed. If the feeling of the other’s arms wrapping tightly around his waist, and their face burying deeper into the nook of his neck is anything to go by, Keith would like to think he’s done a halfway decent job. There’s the distinct feeling of tears soaking into his shirt, but he merely holds the other closer._

_“You’ll always be enough,” He murmurs. “Never doubt your worth.”_

 

Normally, this would be the point where Keith tears himself from whatever surface his body chose for the night to lumberingly scurry over to his notebook so that he can jot down every miniscule detail he can gather. Then again, normally Keith would be at home, passed out (alone aside from his cat) on a mildly familiar surface without surrounding friends that can question what he’s doing. Current circumstances are about as far away from normal as they can be.

Keith isn’t quite sure where in between the group’s drunk-like state caused by sleep deprivation and the moment of passing out that he and Lance had the grand idea of pushing the beanbags together to form The Ultimate Bean Bag. All he knows is that they were successful in their endeavor, considering the fact they are now both laid out on said Ultimate Bean Bag, back to chest. The barista’s arm hooked around the author’s waist tightly, and his face burrowed in between Keith’s shoulder blades. Little puffs of warm breath gently rolling over the expanse of Keith’s back, causing chilling goose bumps to journey down his neck and arms. 

Mild self-hatred bubbles in the pit of Keith’s stomach as he selfishly savors the feeling of the man’s arm around him. It almost feels as if he’s somehow lying to Lance, by being awake and still allowing the other to spoon him. Chances are, it was an unconscious decision made in a sleep filled seek for warmth. Lance doesn’t know that he’s intimately clinging to Keith in a way that’s flaring up the fire within his chest. Honestly, Keith should probably wake the other up, or move out of his arms and let that rouse him from his rest. Nevertheless, with this knowledge in mind, he can’t bring himself to do anything about it.

Remaining outwardly calm to the best of his ability, Keith hopes that the fine hairs standing up on his neck and arms aren’t a firm giveaway of his conscious state. Considering the lack of surrounding noise that could be akin to snickering, giggling, whispering, and the sound of a camera shutter, Keith would like to assume that either A. his friends are all still passed out, or B. they’ve all decided to play this one off. Despite what little nuisances they can be when it comes to anything remotely ‘relationship’ related, or could be potential blackmail, they also know when to take their leave and let it just be what it is.

At least, that’s as far as pictures and group conversations go. There’s no telling how much shit Keith is going to hear from Shiro after they’re in the comfort of their own home. Knowing him, he’s going to make a comment about how Keith shouldn’t have blown off the hickey cover up advice.

Heat floods Keith’s cheeks, making them an undeniably bright pink color. Shifting awkwardly (which only causes Lance to hold onto him tighter and curl in closer) Keith chides himself internally. It is not the time to be thinking about things like love bites, he already feels guilty enough about being cuddled by an unconscious Lance. The last thing he needs is to pile even more guilt on top of that. Maybe he could just… try to fall back asleep. Maybe then he’ll be able to convince himself that everything that’s taken place in the past however long, it’s felt like hours, was just a really nice dream.

This is possibly the worst idea he has ever come up with. If he falls back asleep, he may forget what had happened in the previous dream. Which, still needs to be written out in his notebook. Or, worse, he’ll somehow have another conversation dream. Remembering one conversation word for word is difficult enough, especially considering he’s never waited this long to start writing it down. The chance that he could have another one to remember, and possibly mix up with the first one, is far too large a risk for him to take. Keith would like to keep his notes as accurate, and in order, as possible.

Just as Keith was finally about to convince himself he needs to get out of this situation and to his notebook, Lance begins stirring behind him. Tensing up involuntarily, the guilt flooded man braces himself for the worst. Prepares to be shoved off the beanbags, or to be harshly ‘woken up’ by an angry and confused Lance.

“Uh,” Lance whispers, coming to his senses however not untangling his arms and legs from Keith. “This is,” There’s a pause, one that seemingly curls its hands viciously around Keith’s lungs, rendering him unable to breathe as he anxiously waits for Lance to proceed with his sentence. Was there someone else in the room? Were they communicating through eye contact? Was he just distraught, at a loss for words? Why hasn’t Lance pulled away yet when he’s obviously aware of their position?

“Fuck, Keith’s gonna be so angry, isn’t he? Is he awake?”

_I could never be angry at you, especially for something like this._

“As far as I know, he’s been fast asleep this entire time.” The voice belongs to nonother than Hunk, which calls for a slight relaxing in Keith’s shoulders. He’s the least invasive of the group, obtaining the capacity to understand when to have someone’s back. Quite frankly, Hunk being as observant as he is, is more than likely aware of the fact Keith hasn’t been asleep for a minute.  

“Okay… Yeah, okay good.” There’s a sort of reluctance in his tone that jerks relentlessly at Keith’s heart strings; for reasons unknown to Keith himself. Lance still doesn’t move for a solid thirty seconds before eventually he carefully untangles himself from the other man. It takes all the effort Keith can muster up to refrain from shuddering at the sudden chill that strikes his back mercilessly. Goosebumps blanketing over his skin once again, leaving him to curl up a little more as if it would provide him with the warmth he’s lost.

“When do you have classes today?” Lance is still sitting beside him, the voice close and an evident dip at the edge of the beanbag.

“Lance…” Hunk sighs tiredly, indisputable apprehension in both his words and tone. “Do you want to talk?”

“Hunk, my man, I just asked when classes are,” Lance laughs, painful and forced. “No need to get all deep on me, I was just curious. I need a ride back home, and was wondering if you could give me one. Keith was my ride up here, and I’d hate to wake him up. He’s not brooding for once, isn’t it a miracle? No scowls, eye rolling, or crossed arms! This is rare serenity, Hunky boy, bask in the glory of an insult-less atmosphere. Argument free!”

“You start, like, ninety percent of the quote on quote arguments you two have. They aren’t even arguments, honestly. I’m pretty positive neither of you mean anything you say, you’d just prefer to call it an argument over calling it you two acting like friends.”

“Hunk, I’m a hundred and twenty percent kidding. I have no clue how that went right over your head. Did you get any sleep last night? Obviously, I know that he and I are friends, I’m just messing around. Which, I don’t know if you know this, is what friends do.” There’s a moment of heavy silence, and Keith can imagine Hunk is staring Lance down. Sighing, Lance adds on, “I’m over the whole rivalry thing I started back in, what, high school? Maybe it was the start of college, I don’t know when I declared it. I just know I’m over it. I’m very much aware that we don’t have arguments. It’s just our thing, Lance and Keith, neck and neck.”

 There’s another lingering silence, then finally Lance stands up from where he’s sitting on the edge of the beanbag. “Anyway, can I get a ride from you?”

“Sorry man, I’m already running late for classes right now. I had waited up to make sure you were okay, but now I’ve really got to run. I don’t mind if you stay here, though! You know you’re allowed to help yourself to anything that’s in the fridge, and just stick around all day if you need to. It’s going to storm all day today, as well, the whole thunder, lightning, and harsh wind type. So, if you need to wait that out then you’re welcome to. I’m always here, yeah?”

“Ah, stop worrying over me and get to classes! School comes first, you didn’t come this far for me to fuck you up!” It’s a feeble attempt to shut Hunk down; Lance pairing the ineffective words with wild hand gestures that insinuate he’s ushering him out.

“Okay okay, I’ll go. Just remember I’m always here.” Hunk surrenders; knowing he isn’t getting anything more out of him at the moment, and preferring to stop now than to push Lance to a point that makes him uncomfortable. “Please don’t burn my place down, and be sure to tell Keith he’s also allowed to help himself to anything in the fridge!” With that there was an open and shut of the front door, followed by a deafening silence.

Lance exhales heavily, shoulders deflating and eyes slipping shut for a few seconds. He then disappears down the hall, muttering something under his breath that’s far too quiet for Keith to put together. Upon hearing Lance’s footsteps gradually depart, the pretender (aka Being Squashed Underneath the Weight of his Own Guilt: Keith) is at last in the clear and rolls over on The Ultimate Beanbag, fluttering open his eyes to stare up at the ceiling.

Confusion is echoing about in the author’s mind, resulting in an unsettlingly distant stare in his eyes. For a reason unbeknownst to himself, whatever just took place (he has yet to fully process it from start to finish) has left an impression of some variety of fear. Or, perhaps stress is a better suited word than fear. Mornings for Keith are ultimately sluggish. The most excitement he gets out of them is whenever he has a conversation dream, but right after he’s got everything written down everything goes back to the same old crawling pace.

In other words, he’s been jerked out of his comfort zone and placed in a situation where he doesn’t with utmost certainty and confidence know what to do. Common sense demands that he just carry on as usual. When taking into consideration how Lance reacted, that would definitely be the most appreciated. Not to mention, as far as Lance knows, Keith doesn’t have a single clue that he was being spooned.

Except, how does one carry on as usual when they’re in an unusual situation? He can’t grab his notebook and start writing down the conversation in his dream, Lance would become too curious and would probably try to jokingly take it from him and read it. Which, would undoubtedly lead to a multitude of questions. He feels uncomfortable just taking food from Hunk’s fridge, at least if he’s alone in it. Keith never wants to be in a place where he owes someone something. It never does end well. And, he cannot just run out of the apartment, hop on his motorcycle, and never look back. Sure, he can be a dick, but he isn’t about to leave Lance alone without a word. He’s hurt the poor guy’s feelings enough for a good decade.

No writing, no food, no escape, and no familiar surroundings.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Keith lazily drags himself up to a seated position, crossing his legs and hiding his face in his hands. Heart slamming in his chest erratically, feeling like it’s about to rip right out and give up on him. He wouldn’t blame his heart if it decided he’s a bit too much to handle, after all he’s sure these little anxiety filled moments aren’t very good for it.

“Oh, you’re up! Perfect, what does an emo usually eat for breakfast? Pancakes seasoned with the spirits of the damned? Eggs salted with the tears of your enemies? What is the secret emo agenda?” And then it all washes away. Chuckling softly, Keith pulls his hands away from his face and stares up at Lance, amusement twinkling in his eyes.

“While both of those sound absolutely delicious, usually I eat breakfast at the café. You know, like the yogurt thingies with the fruit and granola? With a muffin to go with it.”

“Oh, you’re on of those,” Lance shakes his head in mock disappointment.

“What the hell are you insinuating, Mr. McClain?”

“You know; fake healthy! You say you had yogurt and fruit for breakfast, and it’s so great for you, but you also had a muffin. It’s kind of like people who order a burger, but get water instead of soda. Fake healthy!”

Gaping, Keith remains staring at Lance in astonishment. Was he really going to start something over what he has for breakfast? Not only is it one of the dumbest debates Keith would ever have, but it’s one of the strangest. Lance has taken his order many times, and it’s not like it ever really changes. Maybe he’ll get a little wild and order a banana muffin instead of a blueberry one, but other than that it’s always the same. The barista knows full well what Keith eats for breakfast, it isn’t like it’s a mystery, or like he’s trying to put up this healthy front.

Pausing, Lance saves himself by furthering his statement with, “Also you’re one of those people who never tries anything new, and it’s positively depressing. Wait, I just realized how weirdly contradicting that sounds. How can something be both positive and depressing? That doesn’t make any sense, who the hell came up with the English language?” A few seconds pass of Lance just staring down at the floor, bottom lip jutted out in an upset pout.

If the distressed high-pitched screaming that’s internally sounding off in Keith’s head were audible, it’d be shattering all the surrounding glass and then some. _I’m in way too deep, I shouldn’t be finding this adorable. It’s silly! He’s just been thrown off track by a couple of words, it’s nothing to be infatuated by!_

Not sensing the shift in Keith’s atmosphere, Lance shakes his head with a short laugh before continuing once again, “Anyway! I’m making breakfast for us this morning, no questions asked and no objections allowed. While the café does put together some amazing foods, it’s always going to be there and it’s closed today. Therefore, this fine morning you shall be subjected to the wonderful cooking of Lance McClain. Please, hold in the excitement, I can see you’re positively overflowing with it.”

Deciding to humor him, Keith hums thoughtfully and stands to his feet. “And what would be on the menu this, as you say, fine morning?”

Beaming, Lance bounds towards the kitchen, making a hand motion that demands he be followed. There’s a light flutter in Keith’s chest, proud of himself for somehow taking away the tension from Lance’s shoulders. He had seemed so distressed when speaking with Hunk, forced and out of his element. Just as Keith was feeling. Yet, he wasn’t angry. He wasn’t tugging at his hair and yelling at the sky out of agitation that he was spooning the infamous broody Keith Kogane. Sure, he wasn’t as overjoyed as Keith was; which doesn’t come as a surprise. But nonetheless, Keith wasn’t shoved aside and snapped at, and Lance seems more than happy to continue their day as normal.

It would be concerning is Lance was faking his current joy. However, Keith knows when the smile Lance wears is real. Knows when he fakes a laugh, forces a joke, puts on a grin to keep up his happy go lucky façade. To be the one to return that smile back to Lance, to reignite the fire in those iridescent blues, it must be one of the author’s greatest personal accomplishments.

Complying to Lance’s demands, Keith grabs his notebook and pen (just in case he somehow finds the time to write everything out while Lance is distracted with cooking) before following him into the adjacent kitchen. Of which, is just marginally larger than the typical apartment kitchen as compensation for the size of the tiny living room. The kitchen is a rectangular space, with two counters (one that doubles as an island), cabinets above and below the counters, and a fridge framing in the small walking area. There’s only enough room for one person to be working in the kitchen, so instead of offering his services Keith instead takes a seat at the ‘island’.

To call the kitchen small is an understatement, it’s flat out suffocating. With a fridge, oven, and microwave, one counter is just about useless. It leaves only a single square of free counter space for Lance to work on, which would explain why he’s spread out the ingredients on the island counter as well.

Setting down the notebook and pen next to himself, Keith leans up against the counter and watches curiously. “So, you gonna tell me what’s on the menu?”

“Well,” Lance stands up on his tiptoes to pull out a loaf of sour dough bread, the blue and white striped tank top he changed into the previous night lifting up just slightly with the movement of his arm, revealing a taste of the warm sun kissed skin underneath. “I plan on making French toast, with bacon and like a small one egg omelet. Maybe two, depending on how hungry you are. It’s actually really good for weight to eat a big breakfast and a small dinner, so don’t worry I won’t judge if you eat a lot! Not that you need to lose weight, you look perfectly fine. You know, got the abs and the-“ Lance cuts himself off with an awkward, constrained laugh.

“Anyway!” Lance swings around, the bag in hand. “Point is, I’m not here to judge because I don’t give two flying fucks about how much you eat, I’m happy to cook and I’ll just take it as the compliment it is.”

“Does that mean you give a single flying fuck?”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, you said you don’t give two flying fucks. This insinuates that you do in fact have a single fuck to give. Do you give that fuck? Am I the proud owner of a flying Lance fuck?”

Not two seconds pass before Lance is doubling over in lively laughter, at points it becomes so much that it’s silent, his shaking shoulders and facial expression being the only give away that he’s still very much amused. Little wheezes are the only things that can escape his abused lungs at this point, Lance clutching his sides and crying about how he’s in pain through the ceaseless delight. Keith himself can’t help but chuckle as well, finding Lance’s reaction far funnier than what he had said.

“Oh nooooo,” Lance rasps out, throat dry and voice croaky. Somehow, he’s found himself on the floor, sitting up against one of the cabinets, legs bent with his lanky arms wrapped around his middle. “ _Proud owner of a flying Lance fuck._ I don’t even know why that was so funny to me, there was just a mental image of me flying around with my dick out and it just.” He makes a few bizarre hand motions, not even bothering to finish his sentence. Instead coming to the conclusion that maybe what he’s said is explanation enough. “That has been the best thing I’ve heard all week, and I will forever cherish both that mental image and that phrase. I’m making merch out of that shit; my followers would love it.”

“Followers?”

“Oh, uh, you know,” Lance clumsily pulls himself off the ground, using the counter as leverage. “I may or may not have a decent following for my art. I do streams every other night, usually on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Sometimes on Saturdays if I have the extra time and energy, but generally those are spent hanging out with Pidge and Hunk. It’s mostly just me nerding out about different fandoms that I’m in, and taking requests for fanart. Nothing special.” The way Lance says it makes it come off like it isn’t that big of a deal, his hand waving it off like it’s nothing spectacular. As if it’s nothing to be proud of; something to just disregard and undermine. For the life of him, Keith cannot figure out why Lance would be treating an accomplishment like that.

“That honestly sounds so awesome? Like, you get to just interact with people who admire you all the time? And they just talk with you, and watch you draw? I’m always too anxious to do book tours. Not that I think there are really that many people who admire me, but, you get the point.” The author has taken to a more attentive sitting position, his back straightened as he faces the artist, showing that the respective spotlight is on him (in the least cornering way possible). There’s genuine interest lacing Keith’s tone, the way his eyes twinkle in an intrigued fashion are a giveaway that he’s in no way bullshitting Lance.

The two of them never really have the time to talk about things like this; their passions and what they get out of bed for. It’s always just been banter between the two, which is all fine and dandy. Except for the fact that Keith has been wishing for more out of their friendship for quite some time now. Has been wanting to be able to just sit down, have a proper conversation with Lance, where they still act as they normally do but the topic isn’t so… aimless. Again, nothing wrong with the pointless banter, it’s just that an occasional change of pace is nice from time to time. Keith just wants to get to know Lance in a way that is deeper than where their understanding of one another currently lies.

Reluctant, Lance carefully sets the bread down and leans up against the counter with his arms crossed. “Do you actually want to talk about this, or are you just humoring me for the sake of conversation? Because, I know it’s not really the most interesting thing in the world, and I’d prefer to not waste your time and bore you to your grave.”

“Have you met me? I feel like I’d make it pretty obvious if I couldn’t care less about something. I’m genuinely interested in all this. For all that Allura has talked about how passionate you are about art, I have yet to see or hear anything about it. So, go on, ramble to your hearts content. You let me talk conspiracies, and you even engage yourself in the conversation and ask questions no matter how stupid you may think I sound. So, go on, talk art to me. I’m ready to be educated.” Keith punctuates his words with an encouraging grin, relaxing back in the island chair with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Okay…” Lance quickly spins back around, inefficiently hiding the blossoming pink on his cheeks that Keith catches sight of last second. “Where do I even start? What do you want to even hear about?”

“Whatever you want to talk about. What are streams like, how do you draw, what do you like to draw? I’m here to listen.”

“Alright, well, I don’t draw realistically, for one. Which, is usually a turn off for a lot of people that you just meet in the streets. For some reason everyone links real art to realism? Which, just, isn’t how I work. Or how art works, honestly. I mean, I _can_ draw realistically. It’s just no fun for me, and art is about creation, you know? It’s about making a blank canvas come to life. About having fun, and allowing people to interpret whatever the hell they want. Although, I’m also not someone who just broods over my desk and does bottomless abyss levels of deep meaningful shit either. I draw fanart of different shows, all my different ships and such. I don’t know, I just, I do a bit of everything!” Passion is dripping from every word, every eager hand gesture and occasional full body movement. Lance talks about art using his entire being, and Keith swears if he were to shut off the lights the man would be illuminating enough to make it seem as if the artificial light never left.

“I feel like that’s exactly how writing can be,” Keith starts. “Like, I know that a majority of what I write, or well, everything actually, is just conspiracy theories, exposing what I think could be the truth. But also, it’s all free for interpretation. At the end of the day, everything I publish is purely theories, of which people can take with a grain of salt, or morph into something else that they think could be a possibility.” _Fuck you started talking about yourself, it was to show you understand, but still!_ “Sorry, I got a little off track there, I just know what you mean.”

“No no, don’t apologize! What fun is a conversation if the person you’re talking to doesn’t have anything to pitch in with? But definitely, writing is a form of art as well when you think about it. Art is just creation. Whether it be baking, painting, writing, directing. It’s all art, because art is subjective! No boundaries. Florists are artists, they know what flower colors and sizes and shapes go with what, and they arrange them beautifully. That’s art!” Many people would start zoning out at this point. Lance begins rambling on and on about how much he enjoys watercolor and digital art, going off on tangents about his favorite shows and some of the things he’s drawn for them. Anything and everything that could be linked to art, Lance started talking about.

Keith isn’t one of those people. He can’t get enough of the energy, how it seemingly lightens the air around them and makes it a thousand times easier to breathe. He can’t get enough of seeing Lance grow exponentially more and more excited by the second. It’s riveting in all forms, has the author on the edge of his seat as he takes in every ounce of joy that Lance exudes.

Before either of them know it; Lance is fixing up plates while rambling on about a show that involves, as the artist had so delicately put it, gay space rocks. Freezing, Lance looks down at the freshly made breakfast (of which Keith fears has himself visually salivating). Groaning, he puts the plates down and covers his face. “I just rambled for over thirty minutes straight about literally nothing. I don’t even remember half of what I said!”

“You talked about what you love to draw, what inspires you, and how you have your own sort of community from streaming so often. I’d hardly consider that to be senseless rambling,” Keith informs, sliding the plate closer to himself and happily accepting the offered fork. “All the while you were making this amazing breakfast, of which I cannot wait to eat.”

“You’re really not annoyed?”

“Uh, not in the very least? I found it fascinating, and entertaining. I think it’s really cool that you’ve got your own characters that your community follows, and writes stories for. The fact that you want to make a comic? Really fucking interesting, I personally really hope that you do it. Art is a large part of yourself, why would I put you down and call you annoying?”

“Eh,” Lance pokes at his French toast nonchalantly. “Just, no one really has the time for me to ramble about art. No one in my immediate life, at least. Obviously, the stream community is happy to listen to me go on and on, but that’s different. They’re there solely for my art, maybe a little bit for my personality, but mainly it’s the art. So, it’s hard to tell when someone will be willing to just sit there and let me talk their ear off, you know?”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Keith chuckles bittersweetly. “Not many people want to hear about why aliens exist and all that ‘weird’ shit.”

“Yeah, not many people want to hear a technically grown man talk about cartoons and all that ‘strange’ shit.”

A comfortable, mutually understanding silence falls over the room, filled with the sounds of the two of them eating and the occasional high praise from Keith.

_Lance and Keith, neck and neck. Used to think that was a pretty good way of describing our dynamic. We’re such polar opposites, neither of us ever really made the attempt to find a common ground. Yet, here we are. Both understanding what it’s like to be seen as someone who’s strange, seen as someone who has a fake job that doesn’t accumulate to anything. The sort of outcast that not many people want to listen to, because it seems silly to someone who hasn’t dedicated their time to understanding it._

“You should show me your art one day, I’d love to see it. And, I don’t mind if you ramble again. It’s uh, kind of nice?”

“Mullet!” Lance exclaims. “You have emotions?! Since when? What’s happened to you? Were you abducted by aliens and replaced by a clone?”

“First of all, hi I’m a human, I have emotions, shocker, I know. Second of all, if I was a clone, why would I tell you that I was? If aliens have the technology to go making clones of people, I’m sure they have the technology to program them to say what they want them to say. Holy shit, what if I’m a clone?”

“Nope, no no no. No existential crisis right now, you’re not a clone, you’re Mullet. Believe me, I would be able to tell if you were a clone.” Lance goes quiet, realizing how affectionate that may have come off and internally wishing he’d have phrased it differently. “Anyway! I’d love to show you my art sometime, if you’re really interested. Just keep your expectations low.”

“To respect your wishes, I will keep my expectations at the exact same level that they’ve always been.”

“You jackass!”

“I thought I was Mullet?”

“I am never cooking for you ever again.”

Keith clutches his heart, “Tragic.”

They attempt staring at one another in mock anger, but one of them (neither knows who) breaks out into loud laughter, which sends both of them spiraling into pure amusement. Joy bouncing off the walls in a seemingly never-ending pattern.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ehhhh, aha. Part of me feels like this could come off as a filler chapter, but also part of me feels like it's important? Like, they're interacting for once, having a conversation. And it shows off more of their dynamic, and blahblahblah.
> 
> Tis merely the calm before the storm (although I'm really loving this fluff and mutual pining)
> 
> As always, constructive criticism is welcome! (Unless you say it's bad then fuck off) (I'm so kidding that's legit the whole point to criticism.)


	4. Chapter 4

“So, how’d it go? Why were you two cuddling? Why were the beanbags pushed together? Oh my gosh, you finally made a move, didn’t you? No, that’s completely unlike you, you could be slapped in the face with emotions and still wouldn’t understand what they were. Does that mean Lance made a move on you?! And he didn’t even ask me for my blessing yet, I’m so disappointed in him. I’m almost petty enough to say I disapprove of this flourishing relationship, but I haven’t achieved that level of sodium yet. I’ll let it pass just this once.”

Internally screaming, but audibly groaning, the victim of this onslaught of undesired questioning debates doing a complete one-eighty and walking right back out the front door. Before Keith can bolt on impulse, he pauses to realize that there isn’t really anywhere else he can go. The café doesn’t open until noon on Sundays, and he just got back from Hunk’s apartment with Lance. That eliminates just about every destination Keith travels to, aside from the woods and the grocery store. But, is he really going to go hide out in a tree in the middle of the woods just to escape his brother’s unrelenting pop quiz?

Heaving an obnoxious breath so that it’s loud and clear that Keith is not happy about this, the younger of the two finally sets down all his bags on the couch and carries himself to the spacious kitchen. Where, Shiro is seated comfortably at the island, cup of coffee in his right mechanical hand, and a shit-eating grin on his face. Grumbling, Keith glowers at the look on Shiro’s face and pours himself his own mug of coffee.

“Alright, wipe the look off your face,” Keith mutters, unceremoniously dropping into the seat across from the other. “Nothing happened, stop getting your hopes up or whatever. I can’t believe I just told you not to get your hopes up over my lack of a love life. Emphasis on the words ‘my’ and ‘lack’.”

“First of all, I’m your brother, be it by blood or not, of course I’m going to pry every chance I get. It is my duty. Second of all, I cannot say I honestly believe you. How could nothing of happened? You two were cuddling like it would kill you to distance yourself just a centimeter! Seriously, the two of you were practically fused together, I half expected you two to just form one giant person.” Shiro doesn’t speak much with his hands, not nearly as much as Lance does as least. It’s more his facial expression that gives him away. Though, that doesn’t stop him from throwing in a couple of wild disbelieving hand gestures.

There’s a sharp pang in Keith’s chest, as if someone has taken a needle and poked around at the vital organ relentlessly. Shoulders drawing tightly together, he stares down into the never ending black abyss that is his coffee. A slightly warped reflection of himself staring back up at him with the same heartbroken expression. It’s enough to make him look away, horrified by how miserable he looks over something so silly. So selfish, and uncalled for. He discovered some time ago that he’s got some feelings for a certain energetic barista, so what? In the end, it’s so much easier to ignore them than to be turned down.

Lance would probably be so gentle about it, too. He’d feel guilty, apologize profusely and give the whole ‘it’s not you it’s me’ speech. The, ‘we’re better off as friends’ speech. Hell, knowing Lance, he’d probably even try to throw it in their past. Unsuccessfully, of course. It would be in between the both of them, always. There to add an uncomfortable vibe, a constant reminder that one of them has feelings that the other doesn’t feel mutual over. Then what? They tiptoe around one another until, ultimately, one of them breaks down and decides they can’t do it anymore? Which, like dominoes, would send the entire friend group out of order. There’d be a divide, harsh and evident. And all Keith would have is Shiro, because everyone knew Lance before they knew Keith. Even Shiro knew Lance before Keith came into the picture.

Maybe he wouldn’t even have Shiro.

Once again, he’d be alone.

He’s grown so accustomed to having _someone_ around, he doesn’t want to be all on his own again.

Long story short, it’d be so much easier to just let the feelings lie there. They’ll go away, sooner or later.

“Come on, get out of those toxic thoughts of yours, Keith. If it’s really effecting you this badly, I don’t mind dropping it. I was just teasing, but I won’t push anything that’s actually causing you pain. You know that, right? That you can always, just, outright tell me to shut the hell up? It’s not like I’ll be offended, I’d prefer to be told to shut up than to hurt you.” Shiro’s waving his hand in front of the younger one’s face at the beginning of his statement, a look of concern painting his features. Once he’s gotten ahold of Keith’s attention his hand drops, however the concern remains.

“No, no, you’re okay,” Keith takes a reluctant sip of his coffee to avoid the conversation for just a couple seconds longer. “I’ll be okay, I just got lost in thought, no big deal.”

“No big deal? Keith, you looked like you were two seconds away from having the biggest emotional breakdown I’ve ever seen. Are you positive you’re okay?”

Snorting cynically, Keith puts the coffee mug to his lips once more and blinks away the oncoming tears. _I’m fine, I’m okay, it’s fine, please stop asking me questions there’s nothing to talk about._ The first tear rolls down his cheek. _I just wish I could go back to not understanding what it’s like to be attached to someone, to a group of people. I want to go back to before I discovered I had feelings for him, when being around Lance didn’t physically pain me. When I could look into his eyes and see them as just eyes, not some poetic starry bullshit that has my stomach fluttering._

“So I have some shitty feelings that come out every once in a while, who gives a fuck? Who _cares_? Why care? I woke up being cuddled by someone I just so happened to of fallen for almost a year ago, and it was nice for a whole five seconds before I was slapped by the stark realization that it wasn’t done intentionally. We pushed the beanbags together, because we were both a little out of it and exhausted. We then collapsed onto the large beanbag chair, ended up falling asleep together, and woke up spooning one another. Nothing in there was done so that it would ultimately end up with us being all romantic or some shit. It wasn’t done so we could express mutual attraction, or because Lance wanted to cuddle me. It was done because we were tired, and weren’t thinking straight.” Keith’s coffee has become neglected, set aside so that he can instead use his hands to cradle his pounding head.

Weakly, he continues, voice growing both stronger and louder with each word, “And that fucking sucks. That hurts so _so_ much, and I hate it! Who even am I anymore? Keith Kogane, notorious for not understanding what emotions are finally gets his own taste of them and decides he doesn’t like them. But you know what you can’t do? You can’t fucking beat emotions into the ground, you can’t get rid of those fuckers. You just sit there, drowning in them, waiting for the sun to hopefully evaporate them, even though deep down you _just know_ you’re going to be trapped with them for a long time. And they’re just going to get more and more painful, because I’m not the kind of person that someone as bubbly and joyous as Lance falls for. I’m not someone that a happy-go-lucky guy would romantically associate himself with. Why? Because all I ever fucking do is tear people down! I make them wish they never met me, because I’m stupid levels of incompetent, and I’m not a constant source of happiness! I don’t always understand, and I sour a smile.”

Choking down a sob, he finally looks up to meet his brother’s sympathetic gaze. “I feel like I’m just sitting in a cage, waiting for him to come over and unlock the door and let me out. Which sounds so stupid, everything is so stupid, Shiro. I don’t want this, I don’t want to sound like some stupid middle schooler who thinks they’ve met ‘the one’. I sound so dramatic, I should just suck it up and move on with my life like any sane person. But I can’t, because my stupid heartstrings jerk around every time I look at him, and it _hurts_. I wish I was as incapable of feeling emotion as everyone seems to think I am. Do you know how amazing that would be? To just finally be numb again? I want to be numb again.”

Tears cascade down the author’s face in a steady pace, leaving a clear shimmering trail in their wake. The very second Keith had left Hunk’s apartment, and sat down on his motorcycle to escape what had happened, he just knew it wasn’t going to be a good day. Knew that his thoughts were a tangled up mess, which of course tangles his emotions in the process. It’s times like this that frustration, anger, and sorrow seem to hold hands.

All of these said emotions are generally directed to himself, which doesn’t make it any easier.

Shiro doesn’t move from where he’s seated, instead he lends his hand across the counter and allows Keith to take it. “The last thing I want to hear come out of your mouth is that you feel dramatic and stupid for having emotions. You cannot help how you are affected, you cannot help that you’ve fallen so deeply for someone. That doesn’t make you weak, or stupid, or anything related to that. I hate to tell you this, Keith, but those emotions kind of just make you human. Do they suck? Yeah, sometimes it can be a real kick to the balls knowing you’ve fallen for someone who potentially doesn’t return those emotions.”

Squeezing the smaller hand, Shiro sighs deeply before continuing, “I understand where you’re coming from. I understand the feeling of a hand wrapping around your heart and clutching on it for dear life. I understand that it’s such an intense emotion, that you’d rather never feel attraction again than to deal with the fear of rejection. I get that, and if I were you I’d be reacting the exact same way. Because it’s scary, and it hurts, and you feel like you’re the main character in the most cliché unrequited love story. But here’s something I’ll tell you, as an outsider looking in, that I know you’ll hate to hear. I just know you already have a thousand different excuses ready to fire off.”

He waits for their eyes to meet.

“You are drowning yourself in so many what ifs, that you aren’t even bothering to try. Your mind pattern is so dead set on the idea that you’ll be rejected, that you’d rather just never try at all. And you know what’s going to happen? Soon _those_ what ifs won’t haunt you anymore. Instead, the question ‘What if I tried’ will haunt you. And I promise you, that never getting an answer is far worse than potentially being rejected.”

“Shiro, but what if- “

“Stop asking what if! What if it works out? What if you march right up to him, you ask him out, and he says _yes_? What if he’s the last person you’ll ever date, because he’ll be the only person you’ll stay with for the rest of your life? What if his feelings are mutual, and he’s thinking the same damn thing you are? _What if_ , Keith?”

Silence; there’s nothing for Keith to refute that with.

“I’m not going to sit here and tell you that you have a hundred percent chance of it going right. But I am going to sit here and tell you that you have a hundred percent chance of nothing ever happening if you don’t try. I know exactly what you’re thinking too, what if he rejects you and the friend group goes to shit? But I have a newsflash, that you won’t want to hear. Your feelings will not go away, you cannot suffocate them, they will not evaporate. They will sit there, they will flourish, and they will embed themselves into your every thought. Until, eventually, you won’t be able to stand the sight of him. Then you know what happens? The friend group breaks up anyway. There’s more chance in you asking him, than there is in you letting this sit where it is.”

Bottom lip wobbling at the idea of everything crashing down, the man tilts his head down enough to allow his fringe to mask his face. “I hate it when you’re right.” Keith laughs painfully over a sob, trying to ease the mood.

How did the morning come to this in such a short amount of time? It feels like his time with Lance and this conversation couldn’t have possibly occurred in the same day.

He pulls his hand away to wipe at his eyes, before returning both of them back to the warmth of his coffee mug. “I hate this, Shiro.”

“I hate it for you, Keith,” Shiro murmurs back whole heartedly. “But honestly? I think there’s a very high chance of Lance working out, I think he cares a lot more about you than you seem to think. And not to pat myself on the back or suck my own dick, but I’m known for being pretty decent at reading emotions. I also wouldn’t tell you something like this if I wasn’t sure of it, I wouldn’t hurt you like that.”

Groaning in dissatisfaction, Keith takes a drink of his now lukewarm coffee to avoid responding. He’s not about to get his hopes up, he already knows what it feels like to be let down and he hasn’t got an ounce of desire to be reminded of that feeling. “I don’t want to ask right now. Part of me feels like I may have fallen for someone that I don’t even really know. Like, I don’t see him much out of his work uniform, and before that I was always seeing him in school uniforms. I could count the amount of times I’ve seen him in casual wear on one hand. Also, we’ve never been to one another’s places. He’s never seen this house, I’ve never seen his apartment. We only see each other at Hunk’s.”

“Well, I’m not telling you to pull out a promise ring and pop the question. In fact, I’m not telling you to do anything. I’m merely suggesting that you hang out with him a bit more, and allow that to evolve into dates, then so on and so forth. No need to rush something, you’ve been steadily running for this long already.”

Humming, Keith nods his head in both understanding and acknowledgment. “That doesn’t sound too hard. I, uh, I think I’m visiting his apartment at some point to see his art? I don’t know if he was serious about that. I want to see it, don’t get me wrong, I just don’t know if he was being serious when he said he’d show me sometime. But that’s a decent start, right?”

“That’s a perfect start!” Shiro expresses excitedly, clapping his hands together a bit and grinning at his younger brother. “If you plan on going down to the café at noon like you usually do on Sundays, then you can ask him then and set up a date and time!”

It’s hard to fight off the contagious light vibes that Shiro emanates, a smile finding its way onto Keith’s face as well. Albeit, it’s a ghost of one, hardly there. Tainted by personal doubts and concerns. But, the sight of it is enough for Shiro’s smile to grow.

“Yeah, I might just do that.” Feeling like he can finally breathe again; the author leans back in the island chair with the coffee mug cradled in both hands. “So, you look like shit, Takashi. Skip your morning face mask in favor of hunting me down?”

“You wish you were that special, you know damn well I didn’t skip my face mask for you.”

**********************

Noon inevitably rolls around, soon after Shiro takes off to go grocery shopping. Leaving Keith to motivate himself to get off the couch, and drag himself out of the house. He wishes he could say he was sitting on the couch with his laptop open, doing immense research for his book and being insanely productive. Much to his displeasure, though, he was just sitting there mindlessly staring at a fuzzy television. His thoughts flitting between the conversation dream, and how the real-life conversation between Lance and himself is going to go.

Pulling the helmet off his head, Keith sits silently for a few seconds, staring down at it with a contemplative look on his face. Mentally preparing himself to walk in, and be laughed at. Lance was probably just kidding about letting Keith see his art. That’s something that can be very personal to some people, and Keith highly doubts Lance considers himself close enough to him to let him see it. Although, Lance does share his art with the entire internet world, so perhaps he’s wrong.

Then again, it’s far easier to share the personal things with a bunch of people you’ll never meet than it is to share it with someone you’ll more than likely see every day.

If Shiro could see him right now, he’d be jerking him off the motorcycle and dragging him inside with a roll of his eyes. Demanding that Keith get off his ass and go do it, because he’ll never feel ‘ready’. At least some of that sense sticks around, even with the older brother isn’t there to knock it into him repeatedly.

Finally, after taking far too long to work up the courage, Keith stuffs his helmet in the compartment and wastes no more time entering the café. It doesn’t take long for his eyes to travel to where Lance is standing, oh so vibrantly smiling at a customer who happens to be smiling right back. Just like that, the nervousness seems to melt away. Whether that’s good, bad, or indifferent is up for debate. It doesn’t feel like something that could be remotely negative. To gravitate so naturally, find himself at the end of the line waiting (im)patiently to get to the front, so that he too can be greeted by that radiant smile.

Something about Lance brings an instinctual ease to Keith’s shoulders. Something that Keith constantly forgets exists. While he feels as if he’s drowning in anxiety while away, stuck with only his thoughts to fuel his mind, it all seems to quieten down once he actually approaches the other man.

“Aw, you couldn’t get enough of me, could ya, Mullet?” Lance teases, crossing his arms over his chest. “And here I was, thinking I’d finally been successful in my endeavors to run you off. Yet, here you are. It just means I’ll have to try harder next time.”

_Please do._

“Don’t flatter yourself, I don’t know what gave you the impression that I’m here for you. Need I remind you that you work in a café that sells some damn good subs for lunch? I’ll take a number three and a large black coffee, by the way. What a rude cashier, didn’t even ask for my order. I’ll be sure to write a letter to your manager, and give you a horrible review on yelp that will surely keep potential customers away. That should suffice for this disgraceful service.” The grin remains prominent as Lance exaggerates an overly apologetic reaction.

“My sincerest of apologies, Mr. Kogane! To compensate for the trouble I have given you, I will happily give you your order on the house, as well as a freshly baked muffin.” 

Breaking character with a chuckle, Keith continues on as normal with a lighthearted lilt in his voice, “Yeah, just might hold off on both the letter and review for that. You sure do make a compelling bargain. Also, don’t you ever call me ‘Mr. Kogane’ again, I hate to say it but I much prefer ‘Mullet’.”

“Aha!” Lance exclaims victoriously, and even though his focus is all on putting together Keith’s sandwich, it’s obvious he wants to break out into a happy dance. “I knew one day you would finally come to your senses and realize how fitting and amazing that nickname is!”

“Alright, don’t break your legs falling off that high horse. I think I’m settling more than anything.”

“Oh ouch, my legs are shattered, you’ve wounded me.”

“Thank God, you’re immobilized. Now to somehow, just, cut your vocal chords out and leave you mute as well. For once, the sun will shine down on this café.”

“Excuse you!” Lance puts the sub on a plate and sets it down on the counter, before moving onto pouring the coffee. “I’ll have you know I _am_ the light of this café! Without me, it would be painfully dull around here.”

_I know._

Putting a lid on the coffee, Lance reaches into the display and grabs a muffin to place on the tray as well. “Now, stop harassing me or else I’ll have security escort you.” They don’t have security, but they have Hunk and Allura, which is close enough.

“Uh, Lance? I didn’t order a muffin.” Keith laughs awkwardly, pointing at the banana nut muffin in question.

“Uh, Mullet? I told you that you were getting the sub and coffee on the house, along with a muffin.” Lance mocks, lifting an eyebrow with a slightly confused but understanding grin.

“I could have sworn the both of us were kidding, were you not on the same page as me? Not sure if you remember, but I know the manager, and I hate yelp. I’m not here to throw you under the bus.”

“Keith Keith Keith,” Lance tsks while shaking his head, pushing the tray towards the man. “First of all, I am not nearly as daft as you seem to think I am. Second of all, accept some kindness every now and again. It’s on the house, I promise it won’t put a dent in my wallet.”

Reluctant, Keith goes to deny it once again but he catches the look in Lance’s eye and can’t help but melt just a little. He’s seen that look so few times before; that whole hearted genuine warmth. Not to say that Lance isn’t a warm and kind person; it’s just not all the time that he appears fond. Like it would just absolutely break his heart if someone didn’t let him do something nice.

Keith knows what it’s like to be heartbroken.

Lance doesn’t ever deserve to feel that way, not even for a second.

Picking up the tray, he sighs in loud defeat and rolls his eyes. “Fine, fine. You win, I’ll let you pay for my food.”

“Oh, yeah, you sure do sound like a loser there. Not paying for your own food? A complete loss, horrible. What terrible person would bestow such a fate upon someone like you? This one is going to have to go on my, what’d you call it before? _Long extensive list of beautiful victories_? Yeah, I believe that was it.” The cocky smirk on Lance’s face isn’t enough to take away from the look that remains in his eyes; a look that still happens to have Keith faltering just slightly.

“Not as long as mine.”

_Oh that was horrible phrasing. No no no, you stop grinning at me like that. I am two seconds away from smacking that stupid smirk off his face. I can’t believe I said that, can the floor swallow me up now?_

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

_You shut the fuck up, Lance McClain! No! You are not allowed to say those things to me! There is nothing to see, I do not have a list written down anywhere, stop!_

“Get ready to believe then, sweetheart.” With that, Keith turns around on his heel with the tray in a grasp so tight it’s turning his knuckles a paper white.

_Why did I do that? Oh, that was such a horrible idea. Why did I wink?! I can’t wink! That was horrible. He looks so cute when he’s blushing. At least I didn’t call him something stupid and southern; like honeysuckle._

Once seated, Keith realizes he never even asked about going to Lance’s apartment to see the art. The one thing he came here to do and get over with, and instead he had a ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours’ conversation. After what just took place, he’s almost positive this is the worst time to ask if he can come to his apartment. The amount of mixed signals that could give is alarming, and are better left avoided.

Masking the groan that bubbles up in his throat, Keith drops his head down onto the table and opens his mouth up in a silent scream.

_Shiro is either going to kill me, be proud of me, laugh his ass off over how awful that went, or be all of the above._

Meanwhile, Lance made sure the coast was clear (there were no customers standing in line) before disappearing into the break room. Hands covering his flushed cheeks, he meets Allura’s eyes and flushes darker at the knowing look on her face. She had been undoubtedly listening to every single word; eavesdropping is one of her greatest talents.

“I can’t believe it, for the amount you flirt you really can’t take it when someone dishes it out in return!” Allura yells, pushing at Lance’s shoulder a bit and laughing when he squeaks.

“Shut up!” He hisses, opting to cover his entire face so that his expression doesn’t give anything away.

“Aw, Lance, you are so far gone for him. But he flirted back!”

“I know… I know!” The first time he says it his voice cracks brokenly, but the second time contradicts that entirely with an ecstatic tone. “Oh, I’m royally fucked. What am I gonna do, Allura?”

“Well, that all depends on whether or not you ever ask him out and make a move. You’re definitely royally fucked if you never give it a chance.” Allura pulls him into a hug that he accepts easily. “I have never seen you so far gone for someone, it makes me happy.”

“You’d be even happier to hear that I may or may not have accidentally invited him over to my apartment to see my art.”

“When did this happen?! Why haven’t you told me?! Do you have a time or date set at all?” Offended, Allura pulls back to look Lance in the eye, keeping her hands on his shoulders.

“This morning, because you already know too much and meddle enough as it is, and no. We kinda just, left it at that. Honestly, he may have been messing with me. I know I was serious when I said I was okay with showing him my art, but I don’t know if he was serious about wanting to see it.”

“He’s literally the bluntest person ever, with zero filter and a lack of understanding when it comes to being decent in a social interaction. I assure you that he meant it, and that you need to get your ass out of here and to his table to set a time!”

“Ah, no.” Lance stops her from ushering him out, grabbing the hands that were about to push him out the door while shaking his head wildly. “Considering what just went down, that could imply a lot of things that I just… would prefer to not imply right now.”

Huffing, Allura nods her head in disappointment, pulling her hands away. “You’re right, you should probably give it a day or something.” Disappointment fades quick when she tacks on, “But you better set it up soon, or else I’ll do it for you and say it was on your behalf!”

Chuckling, Lance nods his head in giddy agreement. “Yeah, I’ll set it up soon, I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're lucky they're cute, cause they sure aren't bright.
> 
> Let's pretend I updated this on time, this week has been a lil wild.
> 
> Also, Happy Fourth of July to all my 'Murican readers!


	5. Chapter 5

Regret has begun filtering into Keith’s every thought; having recently come to the realization that perhaps he should have brought along his laptop, or at the very least some of his notebooks. Being seated in a virtually empty café with only a lukewarm coffee and his phone (which has few apps, and even fewer contacts) to occupy himself with as he accumulates what courage he can muster up to approach Lance, is an experience that has proven itself to be overly difficult. One that’s leaving him with nothing but his own thoughts to accompany both his lack of motivation and productivity.

Both Sunday and Monday have come and gone, neither of them going with another café visit. After Keith had inevitably returned home that evening, and explained to Shiro what had taken place, he couldn’t hear the end of it. Long story short, there was far more laughing than there was scolding. Which left the author unable to show his face for a good day and a half; not even responding when Shiro apologized and offered food. (Alright, so maybe that one’s a lie. He just likes to think he’d far pettier than he truly is; when in reality he’s much like a cat. Anything for food, no matter how irritated.)

Now, after all that had taken place, he’s back in the café. Seated in his same old table in the farthest corner, and forcing all his willpower into refraining from bolting out of there. Lance had kindly stated that he wanted to talk to Keith once he had a break, and as much as those words terrify him, he’d like to hang onto whatever dignity he’s got left. And, quite frankly, bolting out of there without any reasonable explanation, and indirectly telling Lance he doesn’t care about what he’s got to say, isn’t the best way to go about the whole ‘dignity’ thing.

So, Keith sits impatiently in a tense silence, peering outside the large window right on his left to watch a stray cat that’s loitering around a couple of nearby trash bins. Sipping slowly on his lukewarm coffee, which doesn’t taste very good now that it isn’t at that _just right_ temperature.

Why Lance hasn’t approached Keith when the café is practically vacant is a mystery. Keith would like to think that maybe he’s doing something really important in the back room, or that he’s just preoccupied with speaking to Hunk or Allura. However, from what the little glances the author has taken of the cash register, the barista is merely lounging up against the counter with his phone in one hand and his chin resting in the other. A passive, emotionless look on his face that isn’t giving away any vague answers to Keith’s questions.

_Maybe he forgot what he wanted to talk about, and is too embarrassed to come up and tell me. Yeah, that must be it. Should I go up and ask him what it was he wanted to talk about? No, that’s a horrible idea. Then he may think I’m accusing him of something, that sounds weirdly accusatory. Although, maybe he’ll take it as me being curious and taking genuine interest in what he has to say. Which, isn’t wrong, except I’m also scared of what he may want to say._

There’s something about setting up a future conversation with ‘I want to talk’ or ‘We need to talk’ that really gets Keith’s nerves going insane. Honestly, it’s such a rude thing to do to someone who’s got quite a bit of anxiety. If someone wants to talk, and they start it off with that, they better start talking right then and there. Otherwise, Keith is going to already have that conversation with himself in his head, with a thousand of possible scenarios that are all wildly incorrect with little to back up their legitimacies.

_What if he doesn’t want to be friends anymore, because he thinks the other day got a little too weird and out of hand?_

_What if he’s wanting to let me down, thinking I was actually asking him out the other day, and that’s why it’s taking him so long? He’s too nice to just come out and say it, he’s probably got hundreds of different conversation starters going to ease the tension._

_No no, don’t be silly, maybe he just wants to set up a date, no, time, date sounds weird, for me to go see his art?_

_Doubt it, what if-_

The stray cat jumps out of the way of a reckless car that’s doing a poor job of parking, appearing to be terrified out of it’s mind. Heart clenching at the sudden screech; Keith’s momentarily pulled out of his swarming thoughts to stare intently and make sure the unfortunate thing makes it out of there okay. Something in him is urging him to leave the café and approach the small animal; however common sense is telling him that approaching a potentially aggressive stray cat may not be the best of ideas. Maybe after this is all said and done, he’ll try to lure the cat over with some food, see if he can get ahold of her and take her to the vet.

Wishful thinking; he knows he won’t get the time to do that. Hopefully someone else will take them in before they get hurt.

Going to take another sip of the coffee, Keith winces at how cold it’s become. Thankfully, there’s not much left in the cup, which means, at the very least, he won’t be wasting much when he pours it out.

“Want me to freshen that up for you before I take my break?”

Jerking, the sudden voice nearly sends the cup out of Keith’s hand. “Geeze, Lance, you have got to stop startling me like that! I swear, every damn time I’m around you I either nearly fall, or drop something, at least once.”

Chuckling, Lance puts his arms up in unapologetic surrender. “Sorry, Mullet, I’ve been told before that my presence can be a bit jarring. I have yet to correct that aspect of me, I’ll be sure to add it to the to-do list.” Pointing to the paper coffee cup, Lance raises and eyebrow and repeats the initial question, “Now, would you like the coffee freshened or…? Cause if not, I’m gonna go ahead and take my break. Sorry it took me so long, my mama is trying to get the hang of her new smartphone and just had potentially the worst texting conversation known to man with me.”

_Fuck, that makes so much sense, I have zero right to be upset._

“No no, I’m sorry,” Scrambling clumsily, Keith pulls out his wallet after passing on the nearly empty paper cup. Pulling out a five, he hands it to Lance with a genuine apologetic smile. Seeming almost embarrassed about his little startled outburst. “I was so lost in thought, that you talking out of the blue really freaked me out.”

“Eh, don’t apologize, I did it on purpose,” Lance cackles at the indignant squawking noise he receives in return, happily prancing back to the safety behind the counter. 

Not even two minutes pass before Lance is returning to the table, sliding in across from Keith and setting the cup and four dollars change down with little finesse. Fingerless glove clad hands are quick to grab it before any of the beverage sloshes over; or worse, before the cup itself falls over.

“You’re a dick, but I still feel obligated to say thank you. Although, I’m also just a little irritated that I paid for this, when this is something I really should have gotten on the house. You know; compensation for poor service and all.” He doesn’t mean it, in fact he doesn’t bother to even take the four dollars that were offered back to him. Instead, motioning for Lance to go ahead and take it.

“You’re a dick, but… Give me a second, I need to find a follow up that will soften the blow.”

Snorting, Keith takes a gulp of the freshly poured coffee, entirely impervious to the scalding heat. Sure, he would much prefer to drink it when it’s a little bit cooler, but he was dying to get the taste of cold coffee out of his mouth.

“How in the hell do you do that?” Lance is staring at the cup, a mixture of disgust and awe written across his features.

“Well, you see, when you spend your life jumping from foster home to foster home, you become accustomed to eating and drinking everything that’s placed in front of you at an incredibly quick rate so that the surrounding asshole kids don’t have the time to snatch it off your plate for themselves. Also, that way you can help out the younger kids who don’t eat nearly as fast, and are much easier targets for said asshole kids,” Keith replies without thinking, but then comes to a sudden stop and backtracks on what he’d said. Paling to a color than can be confused for a sheet of printer paper, Keith looks up to meet Lance’s eyes. However, the look on his face isn’t what he’d been expecting.

“Huh, that makes so much more sense.” The words aren’t filled with any anger, pity, or confusion. Instead, Lance sounds as if he’s just cracked a seemingly impossible code.

“What?”

“Well, when you think about the timeline with Shiro and yourself, it’s a little off. I knew Shiro for like, four years before you came into the picture. We were, and still are, really tightknit. Sucked his dick in a stall, all that good stuff.” Lance has to hold back a laugh at the look on Keith’s face. So what? He and a good friend occasionally got up to stuff because they were both teenagers with only a year difference between the two of them, and they were both horny.

“That’s beside the point, point is, he told me everything. Him and I got along really great. Yet, despite our amazing friendship, never once did I hear about a brother, or anything sibling related at all. And, considering how Shiro treats you, how caring he is, that’s really fucking strange. I always thought, ‘Wouldn’t he of talked about Keith before, if he cares about him this much?’ But, nope, one day out of the blue he said his brother was moving in with him, and that was that! No explanation, or anything. I was thinking it was a dramatic scene from a movie, like when the main character finds out they have a twin. But then I realized the two of you don’t even really look alike! So, I thought, ‘Oh yikes, family drama. Mom slept with the milk man.’ But again, Shiro never told me about it, so… Yeah, it makes a fuck ton more sense that you were adopted.”

Staring with his mouth agape, Keith feels a jealous heat bubble within him. Everything Lance said after ‘sucked his dick in a stall’ was a blur, warbled and not put together. It almost sounded exactly like the voice in his dream conversations, it was so distorted. Why hasn’t Shiro ever talked about that? The whole, friends with benefits thing that he apparently had with Lance?

“You just gonna gloss over the dick sucking part?” Keith tries to keep his voice light, as if he’s just astonished and not boiling over with anger. However, that doesn’t seem to be something he’s very affective at, considering the abrupt decrease in happiness on Lance’s face.

“Uh, well it wasn’t really pertinent to the explanation, it was just to give an example of how close he and I were. Why? Does it like, piss you off that I was banging your brother, or something?”

_Yes, for reasons that are completely unrelated to what you’re thinking._

Keith responds with an unconvincing, “No, no.” Sniffing a bit, he takes a slow sip of his coffee to calm down the obvious irritation lacing his words. “He just, never told me about this. Caught me by surprise, little frustrated that he apparently doesn’t uh… trust me enough to tell me?” Well, it wasn’t a lie, just wasn’t all of the truth either.

“Huh.” Lance starts, genuinely confused and appearing to be wracking his brain for an explanation. “I thought this is something he would’ve told you, although I guess I get why not. It wasn’t that big of a deal, nothing romantic. All platonic, and purely hormonally based. It honestly hasn’t even affected our relationship negatively, we instead got a bit more comfortable around one another and could joke easier. But, we never had the messy one-sided love thing that a lot of people experience when they do friends with benefits.”

“Yeah, that’s probably why.” _Or, he was trying to keep my poor little feelings safe by deciding to never bring up the fact that he used to bang the guy I’ve fallen for._ “But to correct you, I was in the picture with Shiro long before I started going to the high school. I asked him not to say anything about me, because I didn’t want anyone to ‘meet the orphan boy’ like I’m a zoo exhibit. I merely stayed in my room, doing online school. Only left for basic necessities, and so Shiro’s asshole richy-rich parents could show me off at professional events and parties. You know; show what charitable and amazing people they are so that more people feel inclined to endorse them.”

Scoffing, Lance’s nose scrunches up in irritation, his eyebrows furrowing and eyes squinting. “Fuck, people like that piss me off. They’ve got nothing better to do than brainwash people, and take baths in their so-called charitable money. The only good that’s come from them is you and Shiro, and Shiro’s arm. But other than that, they can fuck right off.”

Flustered over hearing that he’s something good that’s come of those horrible people, Keith shifts in his seat some before loudly clearing his throat. “Anyway! I’m positive that you didn’t come over here with the intention of finding out I’m adopted, and proceeding to have a five-hour conversation about it. So, what’d you need to talk about?”

“Oh! Shit, I need to stop going off on tangents, I’m adding that to my to-do list. I just wanted to know if you genuinely wanted to see my art? And, if so, would after my shift work? I don’t have any plans, even though it’s the Fourth of July.” Fiddling with his fingers, Lance keeps his eyes on Keith even though he’s dying to look anywhere but. Why does it feel like he’s somehow asking him out on a date? All he’d be doing is showing him his art, maybe they’d talk for a little, and then Keith would leave.

A few seconds pass, Keith seeming to be contemplating it, before his eyes widen in a near comical fashion. Groaning under his breath, he responds in an apologetic tone, “I don’t know if I can… I cannot believe I was this close to forgetting that today is the Fourth of July, I don’t want to leave Shiro alone for that. Our neighbors are fucking insane with fireworks, and well, you know how PTSD is. No matter how loud he turns up the music, or how much he does to distract himself, the fourth is always a bad night; even when I’m there. I’d hate to think of what it’d be like if wasn’t.”

Internally, Lance is screaming at himself and banging his head against a wall. He’s fully aware that Fourth of July is bad for Shiro, he already knew this! Why didn’t he think about this before he decided to ask Keith for clarification on the date? Now he sounds like an all-around asshole!

“Fuck, I forgot all about that, I’m so sorry. We can always do it another time, obviously, it isn’t like my art is going anywhere. But, if you want to think it through, I uh, I get off at four-thirty. I don’t know when everything starts kicking in for Shiro; if the fireworks set it off or if it’s the day itself, but yeah. You should be able to get home before any fireworks start going off if that’s the concern.”

“Alright,” Keith weighs everything mentally before slowly nodding his head. “Yeah, that doesn’t sound too bad. If anything takes longer than usual, I’ll just be sure to leave at around seven; if not before then. That way I’ll be able to get home before it’s dark out, you know? You walk to work, so you can’t be too far from here, and I’m only a fifteen minute drive away. Ten if I decide to use backroads.”

Giddy, Lance nods his head quickly with a beaming smile, “Yeah! Makes sense, Mullet, sounds good to me!”

Although confused, Keith chuckles at the sudden excitement. “Alright, today after you’re off work. Which is in, like, forty minutes, so maybe you shouldn’t be taking a break right now. Such a slacker, I can’t believe this place gets high reviews.”

“Says the author who didn’t even bring any of his writing shit. Where’s your laptop and research Mr. Hard Worker?”

“Don’t even get me started on that; I somehow forgot to take them with me this morning, and didn’t realize until I reached into the compartment to bring them inside and came up empty. I’ve been sitting here bored out of my mind for hours, and only stuck around because you said you wanted to talk. Although, for the first time since I got this phone, the notes app is finally getting some use.”

“Well, at least I’m at my place of work, and am surrounded by what I need in order to be efficient in doing said work. You didn’t even remember to bring work with you. I think this means you are indeed the slacker.”

“I would agree with you if it wasn’t for the fact that you’re still sitting down in front of me, on your ‘break’, trying to stall having to go back to work. Also, I may not have brought my proper work supplies with me, but I am the very least innovative in using the notes app in order to still get work done. Unlike someone I know.”

“Bite your tongue!” Lance yells dramatically, gliding out of his seat fluidly (just kidding, he almost fell, and had to readjust in order to maintain composure.) “I’ll have you know that I was sitting there for so long because you’re a customer, and you were carrying on the conversation. It would have been extremely rude and unprofessional of me to just cut you off and walk away! Talking to you _was_ work, and all laughs were laughed out of pity.” Finally, he finishes his spiel by punctuating it with a final tie of his pin filled apron. “Good day, sir.” Then, with his head held high, he spins around on the heel of his foot and marches off, grinning subtly at the laughter pouring from the man he’s walking away from.

Once Lance is turned away, all the tension that had been accumulating in Keith’s body deflates altogether. Of course there was nothing to worry about in the end, of course Lance wasn’t going to tell him that he didn’t want to be friends, or… more. This is generally how things go. Keith gets worked up over the what ifs, and all the what ifs crumble beneath the weight of reality. Funny how his anxiety doesn’t seem to be very attentive to statistics.

*********************

“Alright, Mullet! Off your ass and out the door!” Lance calls out the order while sliding over the front counter, landing on the outside triumphantly. His apron has been hung up on the rack in the back, leaving him in a short sleeved pastel pink button up and a pair of light blue skinny jeans that are far brighter than any of the jeans in Keith’s personal closet.

Scowling at being ordered around, the author defiantly crosses his arms over his chest and slouches back against his chair. “Actually, I think I’m quite comfortable where I am, thank you. I think I’ll stay right here for another few minutes, really take in the nice hipster atmosphere this place has going on.”

“Excuse you, it’s cozy, not hipster. I resent that. Now, can you pretty please get off your childish ass and get a move on? I don’t think my art is really that big of a deal, but if you want this to carry out the way you said it needs to, then you kinda have to go through the motions necessary for that.” Impatient, Lance is rocking from heel to toe, hands clutching onto the strap of his small over the shoulder bag. It too is covered in pins, mainly ones that seem to have art all over them.

“Right, cozy. That’s why ninety percent of your customers are all wearing fake square framed glasses and sweaters that are two sizes too large, because they’re just cozy. Not hipster.” Keith stands to his feet, feeling oddly awkward without his laptop and notebooks to grab. It feels empty, to only have to slide his phone in his pocket and that be that.

“I don’t know if you noticed, Mullet, but you’re kind of one of our most frequent customers. You are our money cow, buddy. For someone who isn’t a fan of the word hipster, that sure is a lot of dedication to put into a quote on quote hipster café.”

“Wow, I can’t believe you just exposed Allura’s café like that. You guys really are just using me for my money, I knew it all along!”

“Oh definitely, man, I can’t believe it’s taken you this long to find out. We started being your friend a few years ago because we had this hunch that you’d become this huge conspiracy theorist author that would help further the business of a café. You know what hipsters love? Books, coffee, and conspiracies. Our plan in and of itself is a conspiracy, honestly. We worked hard to lure you into this ‘friendship’, so that you would frequently come to the café. Thus attracting all the little avid readers, who see you sitting there in your cozy corner, writing all merrily, making them think, ‘Wow that’s so aesthetically pleasing, he looks like he’s writing a book in this fairy light lit café, that’s amazing’. Voila! We have customers!” The story is told with wild hand gestures, the man’s over the shoulder bag flapping about everywhere because of his body movements.

_I can’t believe he just made a conspiracy theory about me, I think I’m in love._

“You know what? That was almost a perfect conspiracy theory, and my little theorist heart is just so giddy that you made that up on the spot, but there is a flaw in that intricate story of yours.”

“Bullshit, what?”

“I don’t use my real name for my books, and none of the readers know what I look like. Never been to a convention, a book tour, don’t have my picture in the back. Which therefore means, all of your customers could not be there for me, or even think about visiting here because of me. Whatever fans I have, are not aware of who they are a fan of. Allura just happens to be a successful business woman, and her tactics and taste have attracted quite the crowd.”

“Shit,” Lance mumbles with his bottom lip jut out in a pout, he takes a seat behind Keith on the motorcycle, accepting the helmet that’s handed back to him. “Here I was, so proud of that, and you just had to go and ruin it with your _logic_. What kind of conspiracy theorist are you, bringing logic into this shit.”

“Lance,” Keith starts, pausing to start up the engine. “Contrary to popular belief, there is a lot of self-debunking that goes into theorizing. Why do you think I need so much research in order to write my books? I need to have evidence, reasoning, something to back it up with. Point A cannot equal Point B without Point C, make sense?”

“Everything makes sense except for the whole point system you’ve got going there.”

“Event, reason, evidence. Now tell me where I’m going, I have no clue where you live.”

“You know where Allura’s dad’s company is?” A hum of understanding. “Yeah, go past that, take a left at the gas station, and drive straight. The second apartment complex on the right is where yours truly lives.”

“Great, now shut up and hold on before I drive out of here, and let you fly off the back.”

“You would never!” Lance yells over the engine, but wraps an arm around Keith nonetheless. His other hand gripping tightly onto the strap of his bag so that it doesn’t end up flying everywhere. He’d prefer to not lose a hundred dollars’ worth of art supplies right now, he doesn’t have either the bank account nor the desire to replace them.

The driver doesn’t bother to respond, instead he merely smirks and slams his foot down on the gas. Lance’s yelp of ‘you asshole!’ as he tightens his arm further is all Keith needs to hear to break out into a boisterous joyful laughter.

Much to Keith’s disappointment and Lance’s luck, the ride took less than five minutes. Making it difficult for Keith to really mess with Lance. That along with the fact that the time crunch calls for no using backroads. Slowing down once pulling into the parking lot, Lance directs him around the complex to the parking space he owns. Soon, he’s parked in front of a large dully colored two-story building. The only door that stands out would be the bright blue one on the second level. Something tells Keith that Lance would definitely be the kind of person to pay extra so that he could paint his own door.

“It’s nothing special, but I’ll be out of here soon, hopefully. I’m tired of listening to my neighbors scream at one another. I swear there’s a dysfunctional family below me. And the kids around here never go to sleep, I’m not one to tell a parent how to parent but fuck man. They stay out till midnight on a school night, and they’re as young as five! I know that sounds silly, like what dude my age is going to bed at midnight anyway? But I’ve got the morning shift every morning, and that café can open as early as five.” Lance rambles on as he’s pulling out a plain silver key that’s got his apartment number written across the top, and unlocks the very blue door that was standing out.

“Anyway!” Lance throws open the door dramatically and steps inside with his arms spread out. “Welcome to mi casa!” To say that the apartment just screams _Lance_ is an understatement. Everything is brightly lit, his couch and loveseat being a pastel blue with equally as bright yellow throw pillows. His coffee table is glass with a primary red colored outline, four pastel yellow coasters stacked on one corner of it. From what Keith can see of the kitchen, it follows about the same color scheme. A lot of pastel minty blues and accenting yellows, with the occasional red thrown in.

“This is a really nice place,” Keith compliments honestly. While he personally goes for more muted tones, he can’t deny that the color scheme was well thought out and put together.

“Yeah, I’m pretty proud of it. When I first moved in, everything was so dreary. I splurged to paint my door, and decorated the inside as brightly as possible. Kinda softens all the gloom that this complex has going around, everyone is always so angry all the time,” Lance chuckles, though not amused.

“Technically this place is a two-bedroom apartment, but I turned one of them into my art studio. It’s the second door to the left down the hall, if you want to go look at it right now. If not, I’ll be in the kitchen; I’m gonna get some coffee brewing. You’d think that I’d get tired of it, considering I work with coffee literally all day long, but nope,” Lance is moving into his kitchen as he speaks, leaving Keith floundering in the living room.

Uncomfortable at the idea of wandering through the apartment alone, Keith reluctantly follows Lance into the kitchen. Hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans, shoulders drawn in a uncomfortably tight. Despite the fact he’s known Lance for quite a few years now, there’s still some social anxiety that comes with the unfamiliar environment. He’s never known Lance in this light; never seen him operate in his own home. These are lines he has never met, and the last thing he wants to do is cross them.

Sparing a quick glance, Lance takes note of the body language but doesn’t bring it up. “Do you want some coffee, Mullet? Can’t guarantee it’ll taste as good as what the café has, but it’s coffee nonetheless.”

Tension easing, Keith nods his head before quickly realizing that Lance’s back is turned to him. “Uh, yeah, that sounds good, thank you.”

“Alright.”

A second ticks by, which turns into a minute. They’re blanketed in a painfully awkward silence, filled with only the sound of the coffee machine doing its job.

_I need a conversation starter, I need a conversation starter, oh God why does this feel so weird. Why are we being so weird? Why is he being so weird? This isn’t that odd, we’re still the same two people, we’re just in his apartment for once, that’s normal. Normal friends visit one another’s normal apartments. Except I don’t live in an apartment. I live in a house. Which I need to move out of, because of those stupid obnoxious neighbors- I’m getting off topic fuck._

Silently, Lance pours the coffee into two yellow mugs once the machine sputters to a stop and beeps at him. Still holding one that’s got room in it for creamer, the artist offers the fuller one to his guest with a smile.

“So, are you, uh, streaming tonight?” Keith finally pipes up, removing his hands from his pockets in favor of accepting the mug.

“Yeah, how’d you know?” At first it’s genuine curiosity, and then Lance’s voice grows teasing, “Have you started stalking me? You know, I did think we got here awfully quick for someone who didn’t know where he was going.”

Snorting, Keith rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t have the energy nor willpower to even come off as annoyed. This was normal for the two of them, this was how they interacted. “You wish I had that much interest in you. No, I just remembered you telling me that you streamed on, what, Wednesdays and Fridays? And, you try to stream whenever you have free time? I figured, since it’s the fourth, and you got off work early, and you claimed to not have any plans, then you might be streaming.”

Blush blossoms on Lance’s cheeks, his eyes flickering over momentarily to catch sight of Keith’s easygoing smile. How on earth did he remember that? Out of all that Lance had rambled about that day, he never imagined that any of it really stuck with the guy.

“Well, if you remembered what days I stream on, then wouldn’t that mean you do have that much interest in me? I mean, maybe not stalker levels of interest, but that’s quite the detail to remember, Mullet Man.”

Mock gagging, Keith dramatically shudders and responds with, “I cannot believe you just downgraded ‘Mullet’ to ‘Mullet Man’, I didn’t know that nickname could get any worse than it already was.”

“Aw, look at that, Mullet Man is dodging the question! He does care, he just doesn’t want to show it!” Lance turns around, back leaning against the counter with his brightly colored mug cradled in his hands.

“Lance, I don’t know if you remember, but I’m literally here to look at your art. Like, the reason I am even here, in this apartment, listening to you call me Mullet Man, is because I showed interest in your art. Which, by default, shows that I care to see what you love so much. I don’t think that’s very effective hiding, if you ask me.”

Stumped, Lance stares wide eyed, an unmistakable rosy red gracing his cheeks. Why must he be subjected to having a body that so very easily heats up whenever someone shows mild compassion towards him? It’s hardly fair; he should be allowed to hide his deeply embedded feelings as easily as the next guy.

Thankfully enough, Keith doesn’t seem phased in the slighted by the sight of some blush. If Lance didn’t know any better, he’d assume that perhaps Keith doesn’t understand what blushing may mean. However; the author isn’t nearly as socially incompetent as Lance likes to joke he is. Maybe he’s just really used to seeing Lance blush, that he doesn’t think anything of it now? That’s even more embarrassing, fuck.

Coughing loudly into his fist, the artist clears his throat in a borderline obnoxious fashion before pushing off the counter and standing straight. Forcing a smile, he waves his hand towards the entryway of the kitchen and goes, “Well, let’s go see if you think my art is truly worth giving a shit about.” With that, he’s marching out, failing to give Keith the time to process what just happened and form a decent response.

Stepping inside the makeshift art studio felt like stepping inside an alternate reality. The walls are practically painted in various framed art prints, all of varying styles and mediums of art. A large white desk resides in front of a window, which is closed off by pastel blue blackout curtains. On top of said desk is a propped-up art tablet with a screen, right next to a closed silver laptop, both decorated with stickers. Behind the art tablet is a camcorder, costing somewhere around the three-hundred-dollar range, attached to a tall tripod. Set on the corner of the desk is a mason jar, filled to the brim with various paint brushes and colored pencils, no two seeming to be alike. A stack of sketchbooks, at least a foot high, lie next to said jar.

While this is all fascinating, what truly catches Keith’s attention is a large easel in the far-left corner of the room. A large canvas, sixteen by twenty, is being supported by it, a refined red sketch of what appears to be someone sitting at a table much like the ones in the café, holding a book in one hand and a coffee in the other. On the floor around it are four other canvases, all with the same red pencil, but different drawings.

“Wow,” Keith whispers, at a loss for words. Even he, an author, cannot seem to find a way to verbally express how amazed he is by the sight of endless bright creativity. “Can I safely assume that the canvases over there are yours?” Keith is sure to point at what he’s talking about, even though it wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to spot five giant canvases in an art room.

Nervously, Lance slowly approaches the mentioned canvases and nods his head with an unsure laugh. “Yep! Those would be mine. Allura is commissioning me to make some new art for the café, she claims it needs some originality in it? Something like that. She was talking about the charm it would give, if the café had some original artwork.”

Keith lets him ramble; understanding what it’s like to show your passion to someone. It can be nerve wracking. The first time he had let Shiro read something of his, he was shaking like a leaf in the wind, doing his best to not yank it back and yell ‘never mind’.

“How much…” Keith trails off, sidetracked as he walks closer towards the canvas and takes in all the details. Lance’s art style is extremely distinct, and looks almost semi-realistic. The features of the person’s face are a little exaggerated, the eyes large, the nose small, and the lips a little puffy. Despite this, Keith can’t help but squint.

_That kind of… No, he wouldn’t be drawing me. I doubt he even has any reference pictures to use in order to draw me, anyway. There’s no way that’s me._

“How much what?” Lance cuts off his train of thought with a nervously loud voice.

“Oh, uh,” Keith backtracks, trying to figure out what he was going to ask. “Oh yeah! How much does commissioning cost?”

“Well, Allura is paying me four hundred dollars a painting. Which is, more than what I’d charge, especially for a friend, but she made it a bit nonnegotiable. Usually something like this would be around two hundred dollars, it varies depending on the subject. Sketch commissions are only twenty, fifteen if it’s digital. Thirty if they want a light wash of color. Etcetera, it all depends, really.” Lance takes a peek at Keith’s contemplative look and proceeds to tease him, “Why? You interested, Mullet?”

Ignoring the question, Keith faces him, a little startled when their eyes lock, but efficiently brushing it off. Clearing his throat, he averts his gaze before inquiring, “Do you have any of your finished pieces around?”

“Yeah, uh, just… give me a second.” Lance seemed thankful to get away from the awkward atmosphere, walking away just a little too quickly. Rummaging through a large set of drawers next to the desk, he finally makes a noise of success and pulls out a thick manila folder with ‘2017’ written on the label. “Just, don’t judge me too harshly. You’ll find plenty of fanart in there, among other things.”

“Believe me when I tell you that I have this strong feeling none of my judgements are going to be harsh or negative.” Keith sets down the coffee mug on a small table, accepting the folder. Realizing it’s going to be difficult to flip through all the loose drawings without spilling them out everywhere, he silently asks if he can take a seat on the easel stool. Upon Lance’s nod of ‘sure’, Keith takes the seat.

If the author thought he was speechless from merely seeing the sketches, he was absolutely dumbfounded by the finished drawings. The air was tensely silent, filled with just the sound of him slowly flipping through each illustration. Pausing to closely inspect the colors and markings of each one. Lance has a thing for using varied linewidth, and using smaller pointed pens to create a sort of texture in each drawing. The watercolor is used beautifully in each of them; all the colors mingling wonderfully and placed down with a certain precision that Keith can’t fathom having.

In that moment, as Keith is having breath stolen from his lungs, he comes to a conclusion that he had been building up in his head.

“Illustrate my next book.”

“Excuse me?”

“I adore your work,” His voice is earnest, his eyes finally leaving the piece he’d been staring at to look Lance in the eye. “You have an amazing style, something I’ve never seen before. The way you color is absolutely fascinating, and unique. Your marks have a sense of freedom to them, while still looking highly purposeful, like you know exactly what you’re doing. The subjects are all so varying, some stark with beauty and some haunting. I would love if you would illustrate my next book; with pay of course.”

Face paling in surprise, Lance shakily takes a seat at his desk. Hand gripping onto the arm of the chair so tightly his knuckles are turning a pure white. “You… you want _me_ to illustrate _your_ book? Like, a whole book? That would be on shelves? So that anyone could walk by and see it?”

“Yes, all the illustrations of the book I would like for you to design and make. How does... hmm,” Keith pulls out his phone, clicking rapidly on the screen.

All Lance can do is watch, his thoughts running at a thousand miles a second. Not once in the artist’s life has he been offered something like this. Ears ringing, he tries not to let his ever-growing excitement get the best of him. People seeing his art displayed on shelves? Random passersby, who just happen to catch sight of his hard work?

“How does nine hundred for every full page, a thousand for every double page spread, and a thousand five hundred for each cover sound? Along with… five percent royalties, once the book is published.”

“Holy shit.” Lance sure is glad he had the foresight to set down his mug, because had he not of, he’d be currently panicking over having dropped it all over the wooden floor. Instead, he’s internally panicking over how large those numbers are, and how easily Keith said them. As if that amount wasn’t a big deal, like Lance deserved to be paid so much for some silly drawings.

“Those are fair numbers, aren’t they? I’ve done some research in the past. Honestly, I’ve been wanting to hire an illustrator for the longest time, now, but no one’s art really stood out to me. Nothing seemed to fit the tone I’m going for, the aesthetic of my book. Yours, however, I _adore_ your style. Everything about it feels so in tune with my writing, if that makes any sense.” Keith was beginning to grow nervous. This is a side of Lance he’s never seen. A side that is rendered both speechless and motionless. He isn’t sure how to read any of the mild reactions he’s getting.

“Aren’t those numbers a little large?” Lance squeaks weakly, crossing his arms self consciously over his chest.

“Tell me, Lance, how long have you been doing art for? Like, seriously doing art.”

“Well, I’m twenty-three, and I really started realizing my passion for art around age twelve, so approximately eleven years?”

“So, you mean to tell me you have done eleven years of demanding work to get to the point you’re at? And you don’t think you deserve what I’m offering? Because, I beg to differ.”

Part of Lance hates that Keith has somewhat of a point. He didn’t get to the level he’s at overnight, it took eleven years of crying out of frustration and being too stubborn to give up.

“If you need time to think it over I won’t rush you. I just want you to know that you do very much deserve the pay I’m offering, if not more, and I really love your art. You won’t be rushed, either, I can work my schedule to fit in with yours. Obviously writing the book takes quite a while, which will give you time to keep up and work chapter to chapter with me. “

“I’ll do it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... Let's pretend this isn't a week late. Let's also pretend that I don't absolutely hate this chapter, lol.


	6. Chapter 6

Stepping outside of the pastel wonderland that is Lance’s apartment, and into the real world where a married couple is screaming profanities at one another with enough hatred to make the devil feel uncomfortable, and the sun is beating down harsh enough to fry eggs on the pavement; feels akin to how Alice must’ve felt when her wonder-drugs wore off. As disheartening as this will most definitely be later on; Keith’s high is still buzzing through his system. Eyes alight in a way they haven’t been in a painfully long time. Inspiration, drive, and happiness all twinkle brightly, with a gentle daydreaming haze blanketing over them. It was almost as if someone has replaced his eyes with two shiny amethysts.

Humming a happy little tune under his breath that lacks any form of rhythm, the giddy author practically skips down the steps of the apartment complex stairs. His gloved hand gliding over the railing, the wind he’s creating from his speed and the pep in his step is picking up under his hair. Causing his loose ponytail to fly behind him, his bangs flopping about uncontrollably. Unbeknownst to him, there’s a set of eyes admiring him from the front window of the apartment he just reluctantly left. (So what, Lance wants to make sure that Keith, you know, doesn’t trip and fall down the stairs or something. It’s perfectly logical for him to be concerned about his good friend, fight him.)

Hitting the last step, Keith tilts his head downwards. Raven black bangs mask the amethysts of his eyes as he pulls his set of jingling keys out of his back pocket. Flicking over to the familiar black painted key, he approaches his motorcycle and goes to slide on the faux leather seat and start up the monster of an engine. Movement flashes in the corners of his eyes, head popping up he just catches sight of a coat disappearing behind one of the many apartment buildings.

Eyes squinting, Keith raises his head and cups his hand over his eyes as a makeshift visor. Uncertainty floods his system as he comes face to face with a slim black car with heavily tinted windows. It sits on the other side of the fence that separates Lance’s apartment complex from another. To an everyday passerby, the sight of this car wouldn’t mean the damnedest thing. A normal person wouldn’t even bat an eye; after all it’s merely a car. However, Keith isn’t what a normal person would consider, quote on quote, normal. Far from it, actually.

Something all-too familiar twists in Keith’s gut as he continues blankly staring at the car. It’s almost as if he can feel a burning gaze in return, even though he can’t see a single thing through such dark windows. Breathing picking up rapidly, anxiety mixed with a hefty spoonful of paranoia forces the man to carelessly jam the key into the ignition. He fumbles about, hands shaking as he unzips the motorcycle compartment. Hastily, he throws on the helmet without bothering to buckle it up, rendering the protective wear useless. Just as a familiar bright blue door opens up to reveal a concerned Lance, Keith is backing out and speeding away at a rate that’s hardly considered legal.

_Faster, faster, faster._ A crawling itch underneath Keith’s skin is egging him to pick up the already too-fast pace, especially when he looks over as an outsider looking in and takes notice in the intimidating car being long gone. _No, no, no. I must have forgotten to take my meds today, I can’t go faster, I can’t._ Logic and a police car sitting in a ditch nearby demands that Keith ignore itch that’s become more demanding. He struggles to focus on the road in front of him, his eyes frantically scanning his surroundings, seeking out the black car that’s landed him in this poor state.

Of course, there’s nothing to see. This doesn’t ease the heavy thoughts in the slightest, however, in fact something about not knowing where that car has gone is making the itch under his skin all the more unbearable.

 A honk from the car in front of him roughly drags Keith out of his reverie; as soon as he looks in front of himself he’s slamming on the breaks. Body jerking forwards as the motorcycle comes to a sudden halt. Keith stares wide-eyed at the distance between himself and the silver truck in front of him. He was less than an inch away from hitting it at fifty miles an hour, and he’s well aware that the truck would have been just fine.

Raising a hand to, hopefully, grasp the driver’s attention, Keith shouts a shaky apology before waving once and returning his hand back to the handlebars. Heart beating sporadically and simultaneously feeling as if a hand is clenching tightly around it, Keith prays to whatever God above that he safely makes it home. Perhaps he should have called Shiro and asked him to come pick him up, given Lance the heads up that his motorcycle would be left in the parking lot. But, the last thing he wanted to do was explain _why_ , and he’d been far too desperate to get out of there for logic to take the reins. Not to mention, the entire point of his unsafe getaway was to escape that eerie vehicle as soon as humanly possible.

For the rest of his drive home, Keith forces every ounce of willpower he can muster to shut off his brain, or at the very least muffle the toxic itch, and pay more attention to his surroundings driving wise. Considering his lack of getting into an accident; he’d say he did a decent enough job.

Anxiety continues to crawl under his skin and seep into his every thought by the time he’s finally parked in front of his home. Thankfully, his neighbors aren’t terribly close, the both of them having a large yard that separates them. Which means they don’t interact very much at all, aside from friendly greetings when they accidentally run into one another when checking the mail. This means Keith can thoughtlessly remove the useless protective gear from his head, cross his arms over the handlebars, and drop his head on top of them. All without having to fear someone walking outside and asking him what’s wrong.

Well, someone that isn’t Shiro at least.

The serenity of being in an area that’s got a practically deserted road eases the author’s shoulders, making it so that his physical pain is reduced. However, it doesn’t do much for the relentless itch. That consistent little nagging feeling tugging at his brain, convincing him that perhaps his current level of safety isn’t high enough to be breathable; comfortable. Remnants of the burning stare he had felt still making him feel uneasy; like he hasn’t gone far enough away from the apartment complex.

Taking a couple of deep breaths, albeit shaky, Keith finally returns to an upright position. Catching movement in the corners of his eyes once again nearly sends him toppling over. Thankfully, before he can go plummeting onto the concrete below, his brain processes that it’s merely the neighbors setting up their extensive array of fireworks. By the looks of things, they’re setting up to have a cookout. Someone already at work at the grill, and a few people that Keith doesn’t normally see chatting amongst themselves.

_Thank God, they aren’t overly-friendly and never invite us over. If they were to get ahold of Shiro with a question like that, there’s no doubt he’d do everything in his power to say ‘fuck ptsd’ and drag my socially incompetent ass over there. That would be a night ending in enough havoc to demand emergency attention; for both my panic attacks and Shiro’s._

Sighing, he finally shoves his helmet into the faux leather compartment, and drags himself inside.

“Honey, I’m home!” Keith yells jokingly, forcing the light tone in a feeble attempt to mask the fact he just had a drive-long panic attack that almost lead to a fatal motorcycle v. truck crash.

“In the kitchen!” Shiro yells back, although he didn’t have to. Keith had already figured that out, seeing as he immediately began following the scent of what he’s really hoping is homemade BLTs.

“I am loved,” Keith whispers dramatically once he walks through the doorway of the kitchen and finds that his hopes had been answered.

Shiro is standing in front of the stove, spatula in his prosthetic hand, handle of the frying pan in his other. He’s clad in an over-the-top frilly apron that has the word ‘Daddy’ written in bubble-gum pink cursive lettering surrounded by hearts of the same color. It was gifted to him as a joke from Lance two Christmases ago, however he unironically adores it and wears it every opportunity he gets. There’s something about it that makes Keith want to pout like a spoiled child now that he knows the two of them used to fuck.

Swallowing the childish feeling, Keith slides onto the nearest bar-stool at the island and watches Shiro make the most important component of a BLT; the bacon.

Shiro peeks up before returning his attention back to the bacon and inquires, “So, how’d it go?”

“I officially have an illustrator for my next book, and if this all goes well I’m considering asking him if he’ll illustrate my first book as well. Maybe have a second edition released.” There’s a twinge of something that’s dimming Keith’s happy tone, and considering the second flicker of Shiro’s eyes on him, it’s obvious the other has taken note of it.

Thankfully, Shiro doesn’t bring it up. Instead he smiles a genuinely bright smile and responds with, “That’s amazing! I had a feeling you’d enjoy his art. I’m a little surprised you hadn’t seen it before today. Although, I guess I haven’t seen much of his recent work, so I’ve no room to talk.”

“Yeah, it’s beautiful.” _He’s beautiful; the way his eyes lit up like a couple of Christmas lights._ “I’m really glad he decided he wanted to show me it, I was starting to think I’d never find that art style that just clicks with my writing so fluidly.” _I never thought I’d find a person who’d fit with me so fluidly, either._

Shiro empties the sizzling bacon onto a plate that’s got two protective paper towels folded on top of it to soak up a hefty amount of the unnecessary grease from the already painfully unhealthy food. “It’s nothing extravagant, but I was at the store and decided to get an avocado, then I saw tomatoes, and thought that maybe this would be a good dinner idea.”

Gasping as if he had been highly offended, Keith places his hand on his chest and leans forwards dramatically. “Excuse me? I cannot believe you just insulted the honor of a fantastic BLT sandwich. _Nothing extravagant_ my ass! If you think it’s so dull then why don’t you leave all the bacon to me, and you can go make yourself a separate ‘extravagant’ meal for yourself?” A beat of silence. “Actually, even if you do want the bacon, I would not object if you, you know, decide you want something healthier. Leave the heavy burden to me, I’m willing to take this weight upon my shoulders.”

“ _Right_ , you offering to take all the bacon is merely you speaking from the depths of the kindness of your heart, right?” Shiro drawls, although he can’t help but grin as Keith nods his head a little too seriously.

“Oh, absolutely. I’m just looking out for you, Takashi! And I know how you enjoy being healthy, and such. Really, I’m the best adopted brother you could have ended up with. Few people are willing to offer something as great as this.”

“Well,” Shiro slides over a plate with two BLT’s and baked salt and vinegar chips over to Keith. “I think I’m gonna be a Big Boy tonight and eat the treacherous bacon, but I give you my genuine thanks for the offer.”

Keith has to bite down the giggle that bubbles up his throat as he gives another serious nod. “Of course, dude. That’s what brothers do, they look out for one another. Just remember that the offer always stands. Whenever there’s something particularly unhealthy involved, I am your saving grace.”

“God bless,” Shiro snorts out, finishing up on his own plate before motioning towards the living room. “We literally never eat in here for dinner, and we sure as hell aren’t starting now when I’m on a Netflix binge. So, come on, come be sucked into the world of sci-fi with me.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re re-watching _Stranger Things_ for the hundredth time.”

“Please don’t tell me that you, a notorious conspiracy theorist who re-watched it with me every single time, is actually complaining.”

“Touché.”

“That’s what I thought.”

A comfortable silence blankets over the two, and Keith does his very best to pay attention to the show instead of allowing the underlying itch to grow unbearable once more. However; he’s seen this show at least half a dozen times, and as interesting as it may be, it’s tremendously difficult to keep his attention on something he’s already seen when there are so many unrelenting thoughts ricocheting about in his mind.

Anxiety’s most frustrating aspect for Keith is the fact he’s self-aware enough to know when it’s prominent. He’s hyperaware that every single unorthodox thought that comes to mind that is related to the car and the disappearing coat is simply anxiety pounding away at him. There’s a logical explanation to it all; something that counteracts the what-ifs without difficulty.

For instance; it was just a car. That’s all. A car, sitting in a parking lot, with tinted windows, because perhaps the driver isn’t the biggest fan of sunlight. Or maybe they get blinded easily, but find sunglasses uncomfortable!

There are logical explanations, of which do not demand much thought or concern.

Yet, without fail, this knowledge doesn’t subdue the never-ending string of theories that keep popping up. Logic and anxiety are the last two things to mix; they counteract one another. Unfortunately for Keith, anxiety stays on the forefront while logic is an afterthought.

_Did someone who harbors an unhealthily high hatred towards my book somehow find out who I am, and wants to kill me?_

_Am I going to become the next government conspiracy theory, except no one will know because no one knows who I am?_

_Did someone who’s obsessed with my book find out who I am, and has begun stalking me?_

_… Is this somehow linked to the conversations I’m having in those dreams?_

“Alright, what’s bothering you?”

Keith’s head jerks up from where he was mindlessly staring at his half-eaten sandwich, attention directing towards Shiro. “Huh?”

“You’ve been sitting there for, like, ten minutes straight, stock still staring at the sandwich and crushing a poor chip in your fist. What’s wrong?” Eyebrows furrowing, Keith looks back down and slowly unfurls the fist he had been unintentionally making. Sure enough, an abundance of crumbs falls out of his grasp and onto the plate.

Staring dumbly at the newly made pile of crumbs, it takes Keith a second to process the question. Finally, he returns his gaze to Shiro. Opens his mouth, chokes on not knowing what to say, closes his mouth, frowns, and sighs. “I’m just tired.”

“Right. Well, quite frankly, I don’t happen to buy that for a second. Tired? Maybe. _Just_ tired? Not likely, at all. I’ve known you long enough to know how you act, and I’m sorry to break it to you, but this isn’t tired Keith behavior. Obviously, you aren’t obligated to tell me what’s up, but I’m here if you’ve got something you need to talk about.” Shiro pats Keith on the back, keeping the contact to a minimum just in case Keith is in a mood where physical contact irks him, and then he returns half of his attention back to the television. The other half of him listening closely, waiting to see if Keith does in fact want to talk about what’s been bothering him.

“Did I remember to take my meds today, Takashi?” Keith whispers after a moment of silence, setting his half-eaten dinner to the side so that he can curl up on the couch. Legs pulled up to his chest, arms loosely wrapped around them.

Squinting his eyes, Shiro thinks back to that morning before confidently nodding his head. “Yeah, I’m pretty positive I saw you take your meds this morning. Why? Do we need to go to the doctor and see about getting them changed?”

“This is like, my fifth attempt at anxiety medication, like hell I’m going to get it changed. It’s not like days like today happen very often anyway, there’s no reason to go switching shit up just because of one particularly difficult day.” Keith snorts, although unamused. “I may or may not have had a panic attack bad enough to warrant almost getting into a motorcycle v. truck fight. The truck, obviously, would have taken an ass-whooping from Red, but alas Red would have lost that battle.”

_That was a poor attempt at lightening the mood._

“What?!” Keith flinches at the loud tone before groaning, dropping his head in his knees. “Sorry, it’s not every day you hear about your brother almost dying in a tragic accident.”

Keith oh so cleverly retaliates with, “It’s not every day that said brother comes anywhere close to dying in a tragic accident.”

“Right,” Shiro mutters, setting his own empty plate off to the side and switching off the television. “So, you wanna talk about what triggered a panic attack that bad, and why you would even get on the road if you were panicking? Why didn’t you pull over and call me, or something?”

“ _Hey Shiro, I’m on the interstate parked on the very edge of the road, mind coming to pick me up so I can leave my motorcycle here to get potentially hit, towed, or vandalized?”_ Keith mocks, rolling his eyes. “That would have been a horrible idea.”

“ _Okay_ ,” Shiro drawls, frowning at the mocking tone when all he’s trying to do is help. “Why didn’t you call me before you were on the road? You know, when you were still at Lance’s, and you were able to leave the motorcycle parked there overnight.”

“The whole reason I started panicking was because I wanted to get away from the apartment complex as soon as possible.”

“Patience yields focus,” Shiro mutters to himself before giving Keith a blank stare. “Okay, so are you going to explain what the hell happened or are you going to find a way to dance around it with each question?”

“Sorry, it’s just,” Keith closes his eyes momentarily. “I know how stupid it sounds, you know? I know that in my head, it’s this huge deal and that something is wrong, but when I say it out loud it sounds like the dumbest thing in the world.”

“Thoughts and feelings aren’t stupid.”

“Thanks, Dad, I just love your warranted wisdom. It really makes me believe that perhaps I don’t sound fucking insane every time I open my mouth.”

“Keith… Your career is literally being a conspiracy theory author. You have written ten-page long chapters about how and why the government is run by illuminati reptiles. I assure you that nothing you say to me catches me off guard anymore. Except for, you know, the whole ‘almost dying in a motorcycle v. truck fight’ thing. But, that’s a different kind of caught off guard.”

“Did you just backhandedly insult the fact that I invest myself in conspiracy theories?” Keith isn’t genuinely offended, more so amused than anything. After all, Shiro has always been nothing but supportive. To hear him talk about one of Keith’s many odd conspiracy theories in a less than blinding light is an odd occurrence. Even Keith himself can admit that that one isn’t very believable; it’s a conspiracy he enjoys reading and writing about but that doesn’t necessarily mean he believes in it.

“No, I just mean that I’ve heard you ramble about some weird shit, and I’d like to think that I never once unintentionally made you feel stupid or silly. Therefore, the chances of me making fun of you for telling me what happened that made you so panicked and anxious that you fled the apartment complex and almost got in a crash, are slim to none. Not even slim, honestly. There’s a negative a thousand chance that I’ll make fun of you. After, what, over half a decade of you being my brother, I’d hope that you know that by now.”

As comforting as Shiro’s words are, there’s still a lingering discomfort at the idea of saying his thought process out loud. Turning his attention to outside the window to avoid Shiro’s piercing concerned gaze, Keith takes notice of the crowd of people next door circling around the copious number of fireworks and laughing amongst themselves. If it wasn’t for the circumstances, the way the author’s eyes went from disinterested to the size of saucers in less than a second would be comical. If the sudden appearance of stars in the sky is anything to go by, the two of them have been talking for considerably longer than Keith had initially thought.

“Shit! Shitshitshit!” He pops up out of the seat, rushing over to the window and harshly drawing the curtains closed. Panicking, he racks his brain for something, anything, that could distract Shiro from the foreseeable onslaught of deafeningly thundering booms that are bound to start up in at least the next five minutes. “Go, uh, go get your makeup. The stuff that matches me better, go get shit you want to put on my face. You know, that like, that idea you had a couple months ago that I wouldn’t let you do? You get makeup, I make coffee, I’ll explain everything that went down at the apartment complex over some makeup and coffee.” 

Initially, Shiro is perplexed, unsure as to why Keith has all of a sudden started running around frantically and demanding that he put a full face of makeup on him stat. Even so, it doesn’t take him long to realize that Keith is worrying over it being both dark and the Fourth of July. Thankful, Shiro shoots him a smile that he hopes conveys the emotion clearly before disappearing up the stairs to gather his needed products.

With time to spare, the two are quickly set up on the floor. Both seated on a pile of pillows, knee to knee, with their respective coffees sat on the wooden flooring next to them. There’s some music playing in the background, on a low volume, just loud enough for Keith to get a little excited whenever a song he particularly loves comes on shuffle. (Which is literally anything Panic! At The Disco and Twenty One Pilots).

“I really hope I remembered everything, this is too cozy and I am very unwilling to leave this just to grab whatever I maybe potentially hopefully didn’t forget,” Shiro mumbles, fingering through a seemingly endless array of pallets, tubes, and bags. It’s always jarring to see the abundant amount of makeup products that Shiro has acquired over the past year or so, and the idea that what’s sat on the flooring now is only a portion of that collection is mind-boggling to Keith.

_I swear, that’s the same red tone five times in a row… Why are there so many alike colors? Why does it seem like some of these palettes look an awful lot alike?_

“Sorry I rushed you, I’ll go grab it if you find you’ve forgotten something halfway through. I’ve been on edge for the past couple of hours, and seeing that it was dark outside and they were working with the fireworks set me off. I, uh, I was really concerned that I hadn’t caught it in time. That, like, it would start up and you’d be caught off guard and it’s just… Not good.” Keith immediately stops rambling, tensing up and internally wincing at how much he spoke.

The last thing he wanted to do was make Shiro feel bad, or sound like he was rude or misunderstanding. Truth be told, last year on this very day was horrifying. He’d watched his brother effortlessly load and aim a hand-gun, because for a good moment he hadn’t recognized that Keith wasn’t the enemy. However, once Keith’s back was to a wall and he was staring down the barrel of a gun, something in Shiro snapped and brought him back to reality.

He had to start attending therapy a lot more often after that incident, and was one menial breakdown away from being admitted into a hospital for being a danger to himself and others.

“No need to apologize, I know you’re just looking out for me,” Shiro murmurs in response, smiling the most sincere of smiles. He then holds up a product of some sort, and asks that Keith close his eyes. “You can talk, I just need to make sure I get this all over your face.”

Once Shiro gets to work is when Keith finally musters up the courage to start talking. “There was a car.” _What a fucking idiotic way to start out, great going Keith. So there was this car. Oh, shit no really. A car? In a parking lot? That sure explains that killer anxiety, no pun in-fucking-tended._ Thankfully, Shiro doesn’t make a smart comment, instead humming in acknowledgement. Encouraging Keith to continue with his explanation.

“It was sleek, a matte black, and had windows tinted to a point of it being illegally dark,” The author’s voice grows shaky, hands curling into fists on his lap. There’s a certain comfort in not having to look Shiro in the eyes while he speaks, but at the same time it makes the flashing images of that car all the more vivid. “I was staring at it, because it’s not every day that you see windows so dark. I couldn’t see anyone through any of them, but I swear I could feel someone staring right back. I got that instant feeling that something wasn’t right, you know? Like this gut clenching feeling that I shouldn’t be there, and that I needed to get away as fast as humanly possible.” Fireworks start going off, and both of them flinch at the sudden noise. Thankfully, having two things to focus on at once was enough for Shiro to work through the jarring clips of flashbacks.

Not skipping a beat, Keith continues, “I didn’t know who was in that car, or if whoever was in the car even had bad intentions or any intentions at all, I just knew that something wasn’t quite right. And, the only way I know for certain that someone was in fact staring back at me, was once I was out of there, I looked back from the road, and the car wasn’t there anymore. I almost crashed trying to see where it may have gone. Only reason I didn’t crash was because the driver of the truck I almost hit honked at me just in time.”

Breathing labored, hands shaking, and thoughts anxiety ridden, Keith waits impatiently for Shiro to say something.

“So, there was someone who was staring at you through car windows that were so dark they were essentially only one way, and said car and person was gone by the time you made it out onto the road?” Shiro recaps, voice as steady as ever, but a tad gentler so as not to come across as mocking. He’s already started moving onto a different product. Considering the hyper focus he’s got on Keith’s eyelids, the author would ignorantly assume that they’re at the eyeshadow stage.

“Yeah, that’s essentially what happened.”

“Well,” Shiro pulls back to take in what he’s done so far before going back to work. “I think just about anyone in their right mind would have been scared had that happened to them, and the fact that those emotions are a lot more… sensitive? For lack of a better word. The fact that those emotions are a lot more sensitive for you makes it understandable as to why you panicked. That’s a pretty damn unsettling experience. But, word to the wise, next time you should just go back inside. To prevent something like a motorcycle v. truck fight, you know?”

“I didn’t want to explain it to Lance, he only just learned today that I’m adopted. Don’t need to dump anymore on top of him.” Keith can practically hear Shiro roll his eyes at that, given the huff of breath he gives as a response.

“How did that come about?”

“Oh you know, I drank steaming hot coffee the second he brought it out to me. He asked how I could do that, I let it slip that I was adopted, he let it slip that you two used to fuck. Real casual.” Keith really hopes that he effectively kept the bitterness out of his tone, seeing as he was aiming for something nonchalant. As if you always bring up your step brother and crush having a sexual past.

Squeaking in surprise, Shiro jerks back and replies with a shrill disbelieving, “Excuse me?!”

Keith opens his eyes, blinking rapidly to get used to the light, before giving Shiro a sickly-sweet smile. “A couple of very interesting conversations took place today, Takashi. Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

Collecting himself, Shiro straightens up and huffs once again. “Close your eyes.” Keith obliges. “I never told you because I didn’t think it was important. Also, how the hell am I supposed to tell you that I used to bang your love true love? How do I go about bringing that up? _Oh hey Keith, how was your day? Oh you hung out with Lance? That’s so cool, he used to stick his cock up my ass, good times._ That’s a wonderful conversation starter, my apologies for not running that by you.”

Pouting, Keith doesn’t have to verbally admit that Shiro is making sense. Internally, Shiro starts counting down from three, before… “Wait, Lance topped?!”

“I knew you were gonna say that.”

“Wait, seriously, Lance topped?”

“Yes, Keithy-boy. Please, hide your surprise, you should know by now that I’m the last person that society’s gender and personality roles will apply to.”

“This isn’t even surprise that you _bottomed_ , it’s more surprise that he _topped_. Are you sure you’re remembering things correctly?”

“Keith,” Shiro pulls back, and Keith opens his eyes and looks at him expectantly. “It was my ass that he was fucking; yes, I remember him topping.”

They both stare at one another blankly, Keith unsure of what to respond with and Shiro unbothered by the conversation. Shifting, Keith chuckles awkwardly and pulls at his collar a little before going, “So, what colors are you doing? I better look amazing once this is done.”

Accepting the change in topic, Shiro shows him the palette and points out varying shades of red and brown. “I’m doing a brown to red fade for the eyes, a cherry red for the lips to bring out the red in the eyes, and I’m most definitely going to go the whole nine yards on contouring and highlighting. It isn’t very often you let me do this, so you bet your ass I’m doing everything I can before you decide you regret everything.”

“Is this distracting you from the fireworks?”

“Yeah.”

“Then there’s no way I’d regret it.”

“Even if I told you I snapped a picture of you with your eyes closed, and sent it to Lance as the before picture?”

“Excuse me?!”

“Yeah, he’s super excited to see the after picture, and you wouldn’t want to let lover boy down, would you?” Shiro says cheekily, a proud grin on his face.

“I will fight everyone who says you’re this innocent sweetheart. You’re made up of pure evil.”

Shrugging his shoulders, Shiro smugly retaliates with a confident, “You’ll thank me when he loses his shit over how good you look. Not that he doesn’t think you look good without the makeup, obviously.”

Naturally, Keith would have something to bite back with, but his cheeks flush an incredibly vibrant hue of red to rival the lipstick Shiro has set out for him. Lance thought he looked good? Lance is going to lose his shit over him wearing makeup? His thought’s must be transparent, because Shiro just laughs and shakes his head before continuing to work.

(To say Lance lost his shit is a severe understatement. Keith received a video of Lance laid out drunk on his couch, full on monologuing and sobbing over how ‘pretty’ he looks. For just a moment, the man can’t help but ponder the possibility of mutual romantic feelings between the two of them.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything about this story is just a hundred percent self indulgent. 
> 
> Btw my insta is katey.opalescent, the weird update schedule is because I spend a majority of my time drawing/painting c:


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild self-harm tw? Not really, but, you'd have to read it to understand.

Hazily humming in a pleased appreciation of the surrounding warmth, Keith stretches lazily underneath the cozy deep red comforter. His movements are much like that of a cat’s; with his fists curled up into little balls underneath the fluffy black pillow, head in between his lifted shoulders and stomach lifting ever so slightly from where it was previously resting against his mattress. Considering the fact he doesn’t remember walking upstairs and going to bed, Keith correctly assumes that he must have fallen asleep on poor Shiro, and the golden hearted man carried him to bed as opposed to letting him fall asleep on the floor again.

Jolting a little in surprise at the sound of a familiar squeak that comes from his left, an instant little sleepy grin materializes on the author’s lips. Eyes fluttering open, he turns his head in the direction of the noise and comes face to face with his precious Little Red. Her short albeit fluffy fur has the faintest red tinge to it, which is what rightfully earned her the name ‘Red’. Although, Little Red has become her unofficially official name at this point; the addition of ‘Little’ stemming from the fact she was the runt of the litter.

Red seems overjoyed to see him as well, seeing as the second his attention is on her, her little body begins practically vibrating with purrs as she rubs her head against his shoulder. “Well, g’morning Little Red,” With his hands still trapped underneath the pillow, Keith compensates by leaning down so that his nose is aligned with hers. It seems to do the trick, with a satisfied squeak she bumps her own nose into his. Grinning wider, Keith lifts himself up onto his elbows to stretch out his back a little more. At the beginning of this stretch, he had every intention to follow it up with getting out of bed and starting his day. However, the bed becomes far more attractive the more he removes himself from it, so he instead groans and flops back down onto the conveniently pleasant warmth below himself.

_Damn this bed for being so unnaturally comfortable. What time is it? What time did I pass out? Since when did this bed become so warm?_

Carelessly, Red steps onto him to jump off the bed; stretching once she reaches the ground before taking a seat and beginning her impatient wait for her human to get up. Groaning in acknowledgment, the author rolls over, rubbing at his eyes a little too roughly before opening them once more.

“Well, good morning handsome.”

Brain reducing to an absolute sludge, and internal gears turning about as quickly as molasses in the wintertime, Keith goes stock-still and wide eyed as he does a doubletake of the very suggestively shirtless Cuban man who just so happens to be in bed with him. The very same sheet that’s covering his own lower half is also covering the other’s lower half, which may or may not be clothed; Keith doesn’t feel like he’s currently got the strength to go asking which it is. Mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, it takes the bewildered man a good thirty seconds before he finally gathers the strength to jerk himself up into a seated position.

“What are you-“ Just as Keith’s brain catches up with the fact Lance is grinning at him in a manner that’s causing his heart to do somersaults, the other vanishes into thin air in a literal blink of an eye. Gone without a trace, not even a shift in the blankets or a little hint of warmth on the bed.

Amethysts burning holes into the now cold vacant spot, Keith gapes wordlessly. Body frozen in the sense of being both unmoving and chilled to the touch. The only sound filling his ears is that of his own erratic heartbeat; which feels two seconds away from failing altogether. Abruptly, the string of events catches up with him all at once, and he begins gracelessly flailing about in order to get out of the bed as soon as possible. Quickly becoming tangled up in the sheets from the frantic movements, he tries fruitlessly to unwind himself from the mess. Much to his misfortune, he’s quick to find himself on the ground, legs still uselessly wound up in the mass of black sheets.

With unadulterated horror overflowing his every thought and action, Keith hastily rips the pricy sheets from his legs with little to no finesse. Not bothering to attempt salvaging them after he hears a sharp rip go through the seams. In fact, this seems to only spur him on, actions becoming even more negligent, until finally he’s free from the bedding’s confinements. Then, without bothering to face that empty space in the bed once more, Keith’s stumbling out of his bedroom door; leaving Little Red hunkered down under the bed, spooked gaze locked on him as his frame disappears out the door and down the hall.

In such a dazed and dizzied state, the man’s fumbling legs don’t bring him far. Only making it down the hall, before his shoulder collides with the wall closest to the stairs. His breathing labored and scrambled thoughts running at far too quick a pace for anything to make any coherent sense. Although, that seems to be a recurring theme these past couple of days.

_He was right there. He was right there, and he was warm, and his smile was warm, and his voice was soft, and he was real. He was right there, and then I blinked, and he was gone. This is it, I’ve finally lost my fucking mind. My insanity has reached its peak, Shiro is going to have to sign me into the local asylum. I’ve moved on from romantic conversations with an embodied glitchy voice, to having hallucinations about a crush-gone-too-far lying in bed with me. Am I creepy now? Does this make me a weird sicko?_

Sliding down the wall, the distressed man brings his shaky hands up to cover his face. Part of him wants to both scream and sob at the same time, while another part of him wants to curl up and weep quietly into his own arms until eventually he cries himself into dehydration and peacefully passes out.

The way the sheets had curved over Lance’s body, draping over him in a delicate fashion, and hugging the curve of his hip. The way he looked dead into Keith’s eyes as he called him handsome, the way he had smiled so gently and sincerely in a manner the author has never seen before, the way he continued to speak even when Keith’s brain was screaming too loud to hear a thing he was saying. It was all so unmistakably terrifyingly _real._ The way his voice was rough from a night’s sleep, yet still warm and playful. The way his eyes were shining with an almost fond glow. There’s no way in hell Keith could have possibly made that up; no way he could have merely imagined those facial expressions on Lance. No way he could have heard that voice speak to him so… affectionately.

Yet, alas, here he was. Panicking, vision blurred by his own restless tears, hands shaking so violently there’s no way he could grasp any control of them at the moment, and his body feeling simultaneously both numb and inordinately sensitive. All over the fact he had woken up, saw the man he’s been pining for (for longer than he cares to admit) bare chested in his own bed, blinked, and then stared at the empty space the man had supposedly been occupying not even a second before.

Which, logically speaking, would imply that entire series of events wasn’t real in the least. That Keith _had_ somehow fabricated this intricate image of Lance, displaying emotions he’s never once seen the man display, while also brandishing a nude part of himself that Keith has never once seen without some sort of covering.

A battered scream bubbles up in his throat, but comes out as a crude and sharp choked off sob. A pitiful cry for help, which is hardly muffled by his quivering hands. Unease is the only emotion his brain can seem to comprehend; surroundings a muddied mess of colors and his thoughts obscured by an uncertain turmoil.

_I’ve lost it, I’ve lost it, I’ve lost it. I can’t believe I’m seeing things, I’m hallucinating, please tell me I’m dreaming, am I dreaming? Wake up, dammit! Wake up wake up!_

Swiftly, Keith’s hands are being encased by one’s that are just a touch larger. Instinct draws a broken scream out of his raw throat, but it doesn’t cause the new person to flinch or back away. In fact, their grip only grows tighter, securing him even more.

“-eith! Keith! Snap out of it, Keith, it’s me!” Eyes flickering around the room in a bizarre manner; spastic, as if he’s not quite processing where he is. Finally, the amethysts land on Shiro; who looks like he’s gone far beyond the point of just merely ‘concerned’. Their eyes lock, and something in his brother’s gaze makes Keith finally break down into a fit of sobs. Nothing is making an ounce of sense; one second he was happy about Little Red, the next Lance was in his bed and disappearing, and then Keith was having a meltdown in the hallway. How point A got to point B, Keith can’t piece together.

“Okay, can you understand what I’m saying?” A terse nod. “Okay,” Shiro’s grip loosens up a little, and he starts moving off of his knees. “We’re going to stand up, okay?” A terse nod, but no move to comply. “That means you have to…” Shiro doesn’t bother finishing, moving a hand down to Keith’s side, before proceeding to carefully pull him up as well. “Okay, good good, you’re doing great Keith. Now, do you think you can make it down the stairs, or do you want to go back to your room?”

“No!” Keith screams, thrashing back violently. He is not about to go into that room; he is not about to stare down an empty bed.

“Stop! Okay, okay, calm down!” While Shiro’s strength is something to be feared, it’s still difficult to hold onto someone who’s frantic and disoriented. Fear makes a person a thousand times stronger, and Keith wasn’t necessarily weak to begin with. “Was that no to the stairs or no to your room? I’m sorry, Keith, I’m genuinely trying here, but you have got to communicate with me. You’re scared and confused, I’m scared and confused, so let’s sort this out, okay? I- …shit,” His voice breaks, lowering as he inspects his brother’s left arm closer. “You’re bleeding. Keith, what did you _do_?”

_Blood?_ Through teary perception, his gaze filters downward, and he’s met with the stomach-turning sight of four long crimson lines stretching down his left forearm, surrounded by shorter but equally as bloodied lines. None of which are traveling in perfectly straight lines, but more in curves, and no two are the same length or depth. His eyes then train on his right hand, where he takes in the blunt fingertips covered in blood. At what point in his breakdown he started to instinctively mutilate his own arm, he doesn’t know.

Disconcerted, the injured man doesn’t process that he’s being cautiously led down the staircase, down the hall, and into the half-bath. The blank state of being is only broken when Shiro moves the bloodied arm he had been so hyper-focused on. Blinking dumbly, his expressionless stare burns into the side of his brother’s face as the man gets to work on patching him up. The sting of alcohol cleaning out the cuts barely registers, if at all, his demeanor remaining an unbroken blank surface.

“You’re lucky you’ve got such short nails, you must have kept going back and forth on these, instead of just one scratch and done. Had your nails had any substantial length to them, this may have called for a doctor’s visit.” Keith doesn’t respond, Shiro goes quiet after that, wrapping up Keith’s arms with a gauze before moving his hands down to Keith’s hands. He guiltily inspects the finger-shaped bruises that have formed around his brother’s thin wrists, caused by the panicked, harsh hold Shiro needed to keep in order to control the other’s flailing.

Deciding there are bigger matters at hand, Shiro pushes these negative thoughts to a far corner of his mind; to be dwelled on later. Then, with the same amount of care as previous, he leads Keith to the living room and onto the couch. The younger of the two opens his mouth, as if he wants to say something, but for some reason he feels as if he hasn’t got the strength to do so, and instead closes his mouth once more. Staring down at his lap in a feeble attempt to ignore the humiliation and shame that’s begun bubbling in his brain, now that events are catching up with him.

It doesn’t take long before Shiro is returning with a tall glass of water, which is placed on a coaster in front of Keith. Occupying the seat next to his brother, Shiro leans back with a heavy sigh, head thrown back so he can stare up at the ceiling fan. Cloaked in an uncomfortable silence, seated in a tension thick enough to cut with a butcher knife, they sit there awkwardly. Neither unsure of how to start the conversation; what to say or how to explain the past ten minutes in an intelligent manner.

“Do you feel comfortable telling me what happened back there?” Shiro murmurs after a good five minutes of silence, finally looking down from the spiraling fan to face Keith. Who is now hunched over, half empty glass gripped in both of his hands and resting on his lap. Bangs purposefully made to cover his red puffy eyes, which are now covered in a thin shiny glaze from the crying.

“This is going to be another case where I’m gonna open my mouth and feel like the dumbest person on the entire fucking planet the entire time I’m talking.” Keith croaks in return; his abused throat unable to speak above a whisper.

“Then this is going to be another case where I sit here, respectively listen, and do my best to help without imparting any harsh judgement on you. Just as I always operate, Keith.” His tone has taken on the Older Brother softness that comes naturally when dealing with a particularly… fragile Keith. Which comforts him, and has Keith putting his glass on the table so he can curl up against Shiro’s side.

“I’m scared, Takashi.” Heart cracking over such a delicate and broken voice, Shiro pulls him closer.

“Why are you scared?”

“I think… I think I may be losing my mind. Like, hallucinating.” Stunned into silence, Shiro doesn’t verbally respond, instead nodding his head for Keith to keep going. “I woke up and… it was all good. Red greeted me, I was comfy, and then I turned around and Lance was there. And I wasn’t dreaming, Takashi, I was wide awake and very self-aware. I saw him, heard him, _felt_ him. He was like, this life-size hyper-realistic projection. But once I blinked, he was gone. I didn’t even have time to process what was happening, before I was panicking and stumbling out of my room. I guess I just… broke down.”

Silence.

“But, I’m not crazy! Or maybe I am. But he was there! Except he wasn’t. And I’m so confused, and so scared, and I don’t know what to _do._ I’ve never hallucinated! I deal with some depression and anxiety, that’s it! They’re bad enough on their own, but they don’t, they don’t cause hallucinations! That’s a whole different kind of mentally fucked! And I’ve been having these dreams and-“

“Calm down, calm down,” Shiro shushes him gently, pulling back a little so he can look him in the eye. “Silence doesn’t mean I’m calling you crazy, or that I’m accusing you of lying. But you must be ready to admit that that is a lot to take in, yes?” Keith nods his head, sniffling quietly. Shiro has seen his younger brother in many states over the past few years. But downright terrified, and scared of his own reflection, of his own voice, is a state he’s never witnessed nor ever felt the desire to witness. “So what are these dreams?”

“It’s been going on for a while now, I’ve got a notebook that’s a fourth way full of them. It’s just, I’ve been consistently having these dreams, where I’m having a conversation with a disembodied glitchy voice. Like, the pitches vary, and it can sometimes be a little difficult to understand. But it’s always the same type of glitch, the voice itself never changes, I know each time that it’s the same person. At first, I didn’t think anything of it, because okay weird dream. But then it kept happening, and I got a little freaked out, and started recording them after I woke up. Which, I don’t know why I do, it isn’t like that’s going to do anything. I guess I just feel a little better having them to look back on, as a just in case, you know?”

Shiro offers a nod of understanding, even though he seems to be more confused than ever.

“Anyway,” Keith wipes away a tear and sits up a little straighter. “All of the dreams are very… personal. Not sexual, or anything like that, but like. I’m talking to someone I’m romantically involved with. Someone who’s spilling all their secrets out to me, and I in return. Sometimes it’s fun dreams, where we seem to be out doing something, and having some back and forth. But it always has an intimate, more-than-platonic vibe about it.”

“Okay,” God, Shiro feels like that’s the only word his vocabulary has left him with. “Alright, so… You’ve been having consistent dreams where you’re talking to someone you’re romantically involved with, and it’s been happening for awhile. The fact it’s a consistent dream is weird, the fact that it’s got a consistent theme is even weirder. Always romantic, always disembodied, always glitchy and unidentifiable. Did you have a dream like that last night?”

Keith shakes his head no.

“Right… Okay, so you wake up this morning, and out of nowhere Lance is in your bed. Which, is someone you are very much romantically interested in. You described him as a projection, right? But, a very real and life-sized projection. Then you blink your eyes, and the projection is shut off. He’s gone. Kind of like when you have dream conversations, you wake up, and it all cuts off.”

“Takashi, I wasn’t dreaming, though!”

“I know, I know, I just,” Shiro puts his head in his heads. “My instinct is to take you to a doctor, and get you diagnosed. That is what any sane person would, and should, do. But, there’s something so strange about this… It’s like you said, you suffer from anxiety and depression. But that doesn’t cause hallucinations, and you’ve never shown signs of dealing with anything nearly on the scale of hallucinating and disassociating. If you had been, it would of more than likely been put in the possibilities list when you went to the doctors for the other two things. Which leaves me asking; what the hell is it if not a mental disorder? Maybe I’ve been listening to too many of your conspiracy theories; I really shouldn’t start thinking above basic logic, especially about something so serious.”

Keith doesn’t bother with feeling offended by this, he’s well aware that things pertaining to mental health shouldn’t be diagnosed with some unlikely conspiracy.

“What do we do, then?”

“I guess set up a doctor appointment? That’s all I can think to do.”

A beat of silence.

“Can we… can we put that off? Not set up an appointment just yet. I don’t… I want to see if it happens again, I want to be prepared for it to happen again. Obviously, I’m not completely out of it, right? I’m not claiming he was actually there, I’m claiming it _felt_ like he was there. And, for all we know this may be nothing. This is probably nothing… But if it does happen again, if it is a something, I want to see if there’s a pattern. There’s a pattern with the dreams, right? Romantic, same person, all that shit. I just- fuck everything is so jumbled. I have thoughts in my head that I can’t seem to translate into a cohesive sentence, but I just. Let’s put it off for now.”

“Are you sure that’s healthy?”

“Quite fucking frankly I’m not sure of anything ever. And I really don’t want doctors pumping more medication into me, when I don’t know if it’s a legitimate issue.” Shiro makes a point to look down at Keith’s bandaged arm, and back up into his eyes. “That’s not… That’s something entirely different.”

“I would love an explanation for this different something, if you’re willing to give it to me.”

Self-consciously, Keith rubs at his arm lightly, before closing his eyes with a soft sigh. “I used to have these breakdowns all the time, where I would just sob. I would sob, and I would curl up, and I would just be broken. Of course, I didn’t get stuck in the nicest of foster homes, and every time I would have people screaming at me to shut up. To stop crying, that I had nothing to cry over, and that I needed to shut down the waterworks before they would, quote on quote, give me something to cry about.”

Pure rage contorts Shiro’s features, but Keith doesn’t comment on how the man has gone completely rigid.

“It started off where I would just dig my nail into my thumb every time I felt like crying. It gave me something to focus on, something that helped me blink away the tears, take a deep breath, and be… fine enough to continue on with my life. That stopped being enough after a month or so, though. So I’d resort to digging my nails into my palm. It worked for a couple months, and then it didn’t. Then one day, out of the blue, I just… Scratched myself. I kept digging my nails into my arm, and the burning was finally enough to focus on, so I wouldn’t cry. It worked, and it didn’t stop working. Until, recently, obviously.” Keith humorlessly laughs, motioning to his puffy eyes and bandaged arm. “I guess I was so disoriented, and out of it, that I did what I used to do naturally when I felt a breakdown coming on. Except, because there wasn’t any intent behind it, it didn’t actually do anything except for fuck up my arm.”

“Keith…” Shiro starts, concerned and gentle. “You mean you… You self-harmed?”

“I hate calling it that,” Keith whimpers, putting his face in his hands. “I didn’t do it with the intent of harming myself, I just didn’t want to cry, and it gave me something to focus on. I promise I don’t do it anymore. This is the first time it’s happened in a few years, honest. I don’t know why this morning spurred that reaction out of me, but it won’t happen again.”

“You’re an adult, a full fledged flew from the nest adult.” Shiro eventually speaks up after a few seconds of thoughtful silence. “You have the capability of making your own choices, and no one can force you to do anything. You are not obligated to take this to a doctor, you are not obligated to confide me in anything, you’re not obligated to do a damn thing about anything. However, I do have a request.”

The younger stares expectantly; looking about one poke away from breaking down into another fit of tears.

“Don’t let this go too far, Keith, If this reaches a point where you keep hallucinating, or you keep… relapsing, for lack of a better word, if it reaches that point, seek out help. Come to me, I’ll go with you and I’ll stand by you, I will offer as much help and guidance as I possibly can. But, you need to look out for yourself. Don’t get sucked up in this idea that nothing is wrong, if it starts reaching a point where there is obviously something off. Can you do that? Not only for me, but most importantly for yourself.”

With utmost seriousness, Keith meets Shiro’s eyes determinedly before responding with, “I swear to you that I will never let it reach that point. I’m self-aware, Shiro, I know my limits and I know when an issue can truly be classified as an issue. I promise I will take care of it, and myself. Not only for you, but for me.”

“Good.”

Silence blankets over them once more, leaving them both with just their thoughts. Both appear to be on the same boat on things; shaken up but far calmer than they were five minutes before. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realize that Shiro isn’t a hundred percent on board with the idea of Keith not seeking immediate help; but the man trusts his younger brother’s intellect and understanding of himself enough to not pry. Along with that; Keith is a man of his word. Even if he himself doesn’t realize that he may be getting worse, there’s still a ninety percent chance he’ll reach out to a doctor if Shiro says otherwise.

“I still feel like I don’t know what to do.” Keith mutters, sighing defeatedly. “I’m trying to think about what I’d say to someone if they came up to me with this issue, and I just don’t know what I’d tell them. Well, I do know what I’d tell them, but it’s not what I want to hear, you know?”

“Well, what would you tell someone if they came up to you with this exact issue?”

“I think it’s pretty obvious, yeah? I’d tell them to get their ass to a professional as soon as humanly possible, but, you know, in nicer terms. But, at the same time, my conspiracy loving ass would want to see where it all leads. It’s such an odd situation, there’s so many questions and so many things that could be at play.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know… maybe the me from an alternate universe that actually succeeds with Lance put a fucking tiny future projector into my brain and now I’m seeing their memories,” Keith half-heartedly jokes, although Shiro takes notice that his younger brother believes it just a little. Enough to cause personal worries.

“Considering the fact you’ve only just recently told me about all of this, can I safely assume that Pidge doesn’t know about it?”

“Yeah, no, they don’t know shit.”

“Well, isn’t their older brother a doctor?”

“Uh, yeah, why?”

“Do you think you could get him to give you a look over in private? Without big records and such? I’m pretty sure I heard Pidge once ramble about how they make him give them a brain scan like once a month, to search for government implant chips or whatever-the-fuck. Tinfoil hat shit, no offence.”

“None taken, Pidge can go overboard, although I think they do it for the shits and giggles at this point. Just to fuck with Matt, a sibling thing, you know? I don’t think I can go asking him to do the same for me.”

“Then don’t. Ask for him to do a brain scan, see if anything is wrong, and if he just so happens to see something that’s different, he’ll be obligated to bring it to your attention. Kill two birds with one stone. Answer the conspiracy theorist side of you, and answer the… more sensical side of you? I feel like I take a jab at your profession every time we talk about this, I don’t intend to sound demeaning or belittling.”

“No no, I know you’re not, I just feel so silly,” Keith leans back against the couch, hands dropping in his lap. “Everything sounds stupid out loud, I sound like I do belong in a mental health facility. Which, hell, maybe I do. But, it feels weird to go into a doctor’s appointment, anticipating to be told that said doctor has found a chip in your brain. That’s kind of fucked, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is, but it’s a genuine concern of yours and you have every right and every ability to ease this concern.”

“My life is some fucked up book and the author is a sadist,” Keith grumbles with too much sincerity for Shiro to take seriously, seeing as he can’t help but chuckle.

“Yeah, I think just about everyone feels like that at times.”

“You know, you are far too accepting for your own good, right? _Oh, you’re seeing shit? I mean, maybe it’s a conspiracy. Oh, you don’t want to go to the doctor about it? Well, go to a doctor anyway, but go and make sure it isn’t the conspiracy you think it is._ Your support is fucked. What are you going to do if Matt actually finds a chip in my brain?”

“We’ll cross that bridge once we get to it, that’s something for a whole other day. Also, my support is fully understanding and acceptable, it fits your concerns perfectly. Or, well, it fits them snuggly enough.”

“Yeah… Do you think I’ll find anything?”

“I think you’ll get answers. Whether they be the ones you want or not, you’re bound to get answers in the end. And confiding in Matt should be safe, because he’s legally bound to keep what you say and what he finds to himself, unless he finds it to be a danger or threat.”

The conversation ends there, with Keith still feeling like the dumbest fucking person on Earth, and the puzzle still feeling as if it’s missing half a dozen pieces. Logic is screaming at him that he’s foolish for wanting to make sure he’s not some conspiracy; but the author side of him is piecing together what little information he’s got into the most cohesive story he can create.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kinda hate this, lol. I could have handled that better but I'm a little stumped. Also Klance interaction will happen next chapter, I promise, but the past couple chapters have been the 'shit hitting the fan' chapters. 
> 
> Also, if you're anything like me, this is probably the point in the story where you nope the fuck out, but I promise it's all more than meets the eye, and that soft cute shit will take place amongst the wtf stuff.
> 
> ALSO!! School starts Monday, updates are about to become fUCKED! I won't abandon this book though, don't worry xx


	8. Chapter 8

Floundering thoughtlessly, a certain author finds himself unintentionally following the scent of boldly brewed fresh morning coffee. Keith had woken on the couch early that morning to the sound of Little Red meowing in objection to his inactiveness. He’d been curled up in a tight little ball, with his hands curled up equally as small against his chest. His scratched-up arm protected from being rubbed against the material of the couch; which would have irritated the injury no matter how soft. Long story short, it wasn’t necessarily the most comfortable sleep he’s ever had. Although, considering the amount of sleepless nights that ended in falling asleep hunched over at the breakfast bar, his laptop brightly lit in his face, it certainly wasn’t the worst sleep either.

No, the part where he was steeped in the blissful oblivion of sleep truly wasn’t too horrible. It was more the part where he woke up; head pounding relentlessly and heart feeling as if it’s being constricted in a cage two sizes too small, that was less than ideal.

Muttering a short ‘good morning’ to a shirtless Shiro, who’s conveniently already pouring two full mugs of the nearly black substance, Keith collapses onto the bar stool and graciously (or, as graciously as he possibly can with an expressionless face) accepts the white and gold mug that’s handed to him. It’s got a childish golden sun on it, with loopy text in the same gold coloring that reads ‘Morning, Sunshine!’. Keith can’t help but make a face of disgust; he feels mocked. How dare this inanimate object get sarcastic and sassy with him?

“You’ve not even been awake for five minutes, and already I wanna ask who pissed in your cheerios,” Shiro teases, setting his own mug across from Keith and opting to stand in front of him instead of taking the seat next to him.

Unamused, Keith purses his lips at his brother, and takes a sip of his coffee before he can give a snarky reply. It isn’t Shiro he’s upset with, after all, the man’s got a heart of gold and doesn’t deserve the blunt end of Keith’s sour mood. Shiro’s done enough babysitting Keith to last them both a year; no need to go overfilling that quota. Staring a little too hard at the numerous scars that now paint Shiro’s bare torso is a lot better than unjustly blowing up on him.

“So, you gonna tell me what’s up, or am I going to have to crack the case by asking in a series of questions in a survey-like format?” The older man’s tone continues to be uplifted and bright; knowing by now that sometimes Keith just isn’t happy. He isn’t about to let that ruin his own mood, especially when he’s aware that Keith would just feel guilty afterwards. Patiently, he gives Keith a good two full seconds to reply before sighing dramatically and holding up his pointer finger. “Alright, question number one; is there a particular reason you are upset or is it just one of those unexplainable shitty days that can only be solved by cryptid documentaries that were filmed by go-pros and talking about how beautiful Lance is?”

Deciding to humor him, Keith mumbles into his mug, “A.”

“Alright, question number two; Does this particular reason involve yesterday’s events, a certain person, or a dream that may have taken place last night?”

“B.”

“Question number three; can you please just explain what’s upsetting you so I can stop asking questions, or am I going to have to start taking shots in the dark that may end up bringing this conversation nowhere and waste both of our time?” Shiro smiles brightly, he doesn’t appear annoyed in the slightest, but Keith knows he’s being a little bit of a pain in the ass for doing this.

“Hmm… I don’t know, Takashi, this survey system really seems to be working out for me. I may just have to waste both of our time.” He places his chin in the palm of his hand, trying to appear as if he’s genuinely contemplating his response, however the little quirk on his lips that he attempts to fruitlessly hide renders this attempt useless.

 Lifting an eyebrow, Shiro responds with a look that so perfectly exhibits the sentence “oh really now?”. Keith can’t help but give a half-hearted chuckle, before leaning against the small back of the stool; coffee mug practically permanently glued to his lips.

“I think I’ve fallen a little too hard for a particular barista, Takashi,” Keith murmurs, his lips turned in a sad smile, eyes heartbroken. “I guess I’m a little worried that, assuming these feelings aren’t reciprocated, I’m going to get really hurt coming out of this. Not sure how much I can really hide such intense emotions. Before it was easy. We would be in public, at the café, where we can banter and peering eyes are enough to hold feelings back. But now? Now I know where he lives, and I’m going to be frequently visiting where he lives, so that him and I can work in private on illustrating my book. We’re going to be left alone for hours on end, at least once a week if not more. That’s fucking _terrifying_ , you know? I don’t do that kind of thing! I don’t just, hang out with people! I don’t just have feelings, I ignore shit when I feel like it’s a lost cause. Self-sabotage, Takashi, it works wonders for a person’s sanity.”

Had Shiro been anyone else, Keith wouldn’t have been even entertaining the idea of pouring his heart out in such a vulnerable manner. No one else can get the closed book of an author to open a page with a simple concerned inquiry; everyone else has to go through Hell and back just for a point one percent chance of _maybe_ just _maybe_ getting something of substance out of Keith regarding his emotions. In the beginning; Shiro had to go through the very same frustrating process. He backed off for a long time, almost two years, and slowly built up Keith’s trust.

It’s terrifying how easily Keith daydreams about opening up in the very same way to Lance. Someone he’s never had much of a personal conversation with, no matter how much he may want to. Hell, Keith is still working incredibly hard just to hide the fact he’s got depression and anxiety from Lance. Still trying to make it seem like he’s worthy of being around; not someone that needs to be run away from. After all, not everyone has the strength to deal with someone who has breakdowns every other day. Or every five minutes, depending on how low the drop is. It varies depending upon whatever fucked up logic his brain decides to operate by on a day to day basis.

“Well, that sounds horribly unhealthy,” Shiro mutters, however it isn’t demeaning, more thoughtful than anything. “Do you think, just maybe, you aren’t ignoring these feelings because there’s a little thought in the back of your head telling you things may just work out? I know it’s hard to believe, Keith, but not everything is destined for failure.”

If Keith was a cat, the hair on his back would be spiked up, and his ears would be lying flat. “Well, then that little thought in the back of my head needs to shut the fuck up. It may be hard to believe, Takashi, but sometimes people aren’t intended to be loved.”

“I beg to differ, but what exactly makes you think you’re one of those people?” His voice remains civil, calm and collected, despite Keith beginning to lash out.

“I don’t know! Maybe it’s the fact that people don’t like fucking around with something that’s broken?! Maybe it’s the fact that people don’t like dealing with constant break downs, and having to consistently reassure someone that there’s to be afraid of, and that everything is okay! Maybe because it’s hard to be with someone who can’t be happy all the time, no matter how hard they try?! Maybe it’s because I have so many issues, I would never want to lay them on someone else.”

Leaning back, Shiro crosses his arms over his chest and stares at Keith for a solid thirty seconds before replying, “Well, by that logic, _I’m_ not intended to be loved, and I’m the only exception when it comes to being perfectly fine with your breakdowns and depressive lows. Also, you keep referring to Lance as ‘some people’. Lance is not ‘some people’, Lance is… well Lance is just Lance. Who knows you, sure it may not be very well, but he knows you. It seems to me like you’re making decisions for him; by deciding he won’t like you, or he won’t be able to, quote on quote, deal with you. I don’t think that’s for you to decide, Keith.”

“You know damn well that isn’t what I meant, Takashi,” Keith spits, referring to the part about Shiro being unlovable.

“Well then, what did you mean, Keith? With your logic, everyone with a mental disorder isn’t intended to be loved, because no one wants to deal with them.”

“That’s not what I meant! I said no one wants to deal with _me_! I’m broken, no one wants to deal with me!”

Uncrossing his arms, Shiro looks at Keith, soft but firm, and asks, “What makes you the exception? Why is it just you that’s unlovable? You think I’m capable of finding love, correct? And if you need to be reminded, I’m fucked with PTSD!” Keith nods his head. “Alright, why am I capable of finding love, and you aren’t?”

“Lance is so bright all the time, Shiro,” Keith’s voice cracks, his defensive bearing crumbling. “His smile embodies the sun, his voice is always so warm and soft, he jokes and he plays and he’s always the definition of pure untainted joy. I-“ His voice goes for a moment as he chokes down a sob, pointing to himself shakily. “I don’t want to be the one who taints that.”

“I’m going to let you in on a little secret, Keith,” Shiro leans against the island. “As far as Lance is concerned, the altered perception you have of him is exactly how you look to him as well.”

Dumbfounded, the author sits there numbly while Shiro gives him a comforting hug and kisses him on the forehead, not reacting in the slightest as his brother disappears down the hall, coffee mug in hand.

********************

Listening to the bell jingle above his tense frame as he pushes open the door of the café feels as if he’s just rung the bell for his own demise. Like Keith’s challenging Life itself to rain down and take a chunk out of his sanity; carelessly rip him to even tinier even more mediocre shreds. In other words; his anxiety is skyrocketing through the roof and waving at the moon at this point, and Lance is smiling and waving at him, and it’s too late now to turn around because there just _has_ to be a fucking bell that announces your arrival.

Returning the smile with his own strained and awkward attempt at a friendly greeting, Keith approaches the counter with his shoulders drawn in. One hand tightly holding the strap of his laptop bag to his chest, the other stuffed as deep in the pockets of his skinny jeans as they’ll go.

“Well, good evening Mister Stranger, what can I do for you?” Lance is bubbly, the smile he wears is, as per usual, brighter than the sun that beats down on every unfortunate soul who’s out and about on such a rough summer day.

  _“As far as Lance is concerned, the altered perception you have of him is exactly how you look to him as well.”_

Those words have been haunting him for the past couple of hours, and they continue to torment his thoughts as he attempts to somewhat match the enthusiasm Lance is displaying. “Good evening, I see you aren’t slacking off for once.” _Ouch, that didn’t sound convincing at all. His smile just faltered, oh fuck everything._ Internally groaning, Keith decides he possibly shouldn’t try so hard to appear upbeat, he still gives it some effort though. “Uh, I think I’ll just take my usual black coffee.”

“Someone’s feeling adventurous today,” Lance teases, ringing up the order before accepting Keith’s debit card.

“Oh definitely, you know me. I just adore getting out of my comfort zone, and trying new things. It’s my favorite thing in the whole wide world, nothing beats that,” Keith plays along, his heart letting up a little, things were okay right now.

_Is he actually happy, or is he putting on a front? Do I know Lance as well as I thought I knew him? Is he sad right now? Is he usually sad? Why didn’t I ever stop to think about the fact Lance is as human as the rest of us, and not this constant source of unfiltered joy? I hope he isn’t sad, I don’t ever want to see him sad. Maybe thinking like that is why Lance always acts happy, though. Is it my fault he never shows his true emotions? Fuck, shut up Keith, you’re getting ahead of yourself here._

“Keith? Buddy?” The author snaps out of whatever mental hole he accidentally fell down, head popping while he makes a ‘huh’ sound. “Your drink is ready, Mullet Man, here ya go,” Lance hands him the drink, their fingers brush just slightly, and Keith has to forcibly tell himself to calm the hell down already.

“Ah, yes yes, uh, thank you,” Keith fumbles over nothing, and feels ready to break down crying again. He’s almost positive there’s a line behind him, full of onlooking judgmental people, who all probably want to give him a piece of their mind. He’s really not in the mood for confrontation right now. Usually, he can snap back just as fast, and twice as harsher. But today? Today feels like he’s constantly on the verge of tears, and there’s nothing he can do but wish he’d never left the house to begin with.

“Hey Hunk, take my place for now buddy, I’m gonna go ahead and take my break!” Lance calls to the back, but is sure to wait for the man to stick out a thumbs up before he walks around the counter. Carefully, as if handling a dangerous animal, the barista takes Keith’s empty hand in his own, shoots him a sweet little grin, and leads him to the author’s usual booth in the far back corner.

Stunned, all Keith can think to do is comply, sliding into his usual seat. Once situated, he blankly stares at Lance, frame rigid. _Am I really that obvious? What is he doing, why is he doing this? I already regret leaving the house, this is already painfully uncomfortable enough, please spare me just this once fuck._

Sliding over a banana nut muffin he must’ve grabbed while Keith was in a daze, Lance gives Keith another tender smile. “You looked like you needed someone to kinda… steady you? And a muffin. And I’m a someone who just so happens to have a muffin,” Lance starts off, leaning against the table with his elbows. He makes sure to shoot Keith’s, now un-bandaged, scratched up arm a look of concern. “I may not be so good at the steadying part, though, I’m definitely no Shiro. But I don’t mind just keeping you company? And if you wanna talk about whatever may be bothering you, I’m a hundred percent down to listen, and if you’d prefer to sit here in silence, I’m down to… sit in silence?”

Mouth agape, Keith can’t seem to process what exactly is happening. He’s been rendered speechless, and it’s a little odd for both of them. Lance shifts, whatever confidence he had stutters, but he seems to jump right back into it. “Or, should I like, do you want me to call Shiro? I don’t mind, it’s understandable.”

“No, no, it’s okay,” Keith finally finds his voice, and lowers the injured arm so that Lance can’t look at it anymore. The last thing he needs is another lecture from Shiro right now. Bless that man’s soul, he’s amazing and always seems to know what to do when things go wrong, but Keith’s brain is still spiraling from this morning’s conversation, and he’s not in the mood for another round. “Thank you, though, for this. I’ll be fine, though, you can go back to work.” Keith’s not sure what’s worse; being entirely ignored, or fucking up someone’s schedule just because he’s not good at acting happy.

_Why is today so difficult? Generally, I’m at least good at half-assing a decent mood, and if I’m not in a decent mood then it’s a pissy one. And everyone expects me to be pissed off, so it’s fine either way. But today I just have to be sad, and I just had to leave the house, and I just happen to feel like there’s no where else to really go to. Fuck the summer rain that’s making it so I can’t go into the woods and escape there._

“Are you saying that because you actually want to be left alone, or because you thinking you’re intruding? Because, I’m already three minutes into my half hour break, and Hunk is handling himself fine up there. So, we’re good if it’s the latter.”

_I really don’t want to be left alone, and I’m clearly no good at bullshitting people right now, so I guess there’s no way to escape this one._

“You can stick around, then. You sure it’s okay?”

“It’s positively perfect, if it wasn’t I’d probably be complaining right now,” Lance beams, resting his chin in the palm of his hand. “My only complaint is that that muffin looks really fucking good, but it’s socially unacceptable for me to request a piece, because it was given to you as an act of care, so instead I have to not-so-subtly drop hints in hopes that you’ll cave and offer me a piece.”

“That was definitely the most smooth and subtle I have ever seen you act, I reward you with a piece of muffin, you have earned it,” Keith hands over the muffin so that Lance can tear off a piece. Doing a happy dance, Lance takes it and tears off a chunk that was a little larger than Keith was expecting (but in no way is he about to complain; Lance looks so happy it’s a little difficult to say anything in objection), and then he hands the crumbling muffin back.

“Hell yeah! This sexy piece of muffin right here just came out of the oven. I cleverly snagged one from Hunk like the ninja I am before he could yell at me. Like a true hero, I actually burned my fingers for this muffin,” He holds up his cherry red pointer finger and thumb as a point. Honestly, they can’t even be hardly considered burns, and Keith has to hold back a snicker at the man’s dramatics.

“Ah, yes, a true hero. Rescuing a muffin from it’s cruel fate of being simply eaten, only to both rip it apart and eat it. Which means, you’re actually a villain in disguise.”

“Shit, I’ve been exposed, tell no one!”

“This is perfect blackmail material, I’m gonna get so much free coffee after this.”

Lance scoffs, “Psh, as if you pay for half of it to begin with, I treat you to so much coffee and muffins, I have this job as a default of us being friends with Allura.” After seeing how the author’s expression morphs into one of guilt, the barista is quick to backtrack. “Never said that was a bad thing, Mullet. Perks are the best. Isn’t this why school teaches you to network or whatever? Like, there was that one class that was all about being the best you and how to work hard, and there was literally an entire course on using people? Not that you’re using me! Or, maybe you are. Again, even if you were, worth it, perks are the best.”

“Well if I remember correctly, you admitted to using me for my money. I’m here so often that half isn’t anything. Like a billionaire giving away half of their money, and still coming out of it a billionaire. I’m almost positive I’m in this café more than I’m at home; which would be so much cheaper, but, less fun.” _Fuck, I’m flirting, I’m positive I’m flirting right now. Does he know I’m flirting? He flirts all the time, he’s probably keenly aware of my horrible attempt at it. Except I wasn’t attempting. It just came out. Did he catch on to the fact I was indirectly saying I enjoy being in an uncomfortable public setting where I can speak to him, more than I enjoy being in the comfort of my own home? He’s staring at me, why is he staring at me, stop staring at me!_

“Uh, Keith, buddy, you zoned out again. I don’t mean to pry, but, is everything okay?”

_What?_ “What?”

“I was talking, and you were just staring at me, and you froze up and wouldn’t respond. Did you even hear anything I said? Are you okay?”

“Uh…”

_Stop saying Uh all the time! That’s like someone who says ‘like’ too much, you’re probably annoying the piss out of him!_

“No, yeah,” He forcibly chokes down the ‘uh’. “I’m okay. I’m sorry, I’ve been really distracted. I haven’t been able to focus on working on my book, feeling a little creatively stunted, you know? And Pidge is still working with me on verifying sources, so it’s a little hard to go through with writing some things. Especially when I’m not at least ninety percent sure that the theories have some back up facts, you know?” It wasn’t entirely a lie, just enough of the truth to get by without having to go into depth about the insanity the past few days have held. Everything has been so hectic and so out of his element, that every time he tries to open Microsoft and focus, he just ends up staring at the blinking cursor for thirty minutes straight before he just shuts his laptop again. Repeat the process every ten minutes, and that about sums up his recent productivity.

“Oh, yeah, that sucks. I know exactly what it’s like to get that way, man. The amount of times I’ve fallen into an art-block and thought ‘this is it, the end of my career as I know it’ is too many times than I’m willing to count. I mean, I always eventually get out of that funk, but in the moment it feels like the end of the world.”

“Yeah,” Keith breathes, his shoulders relaxing. Normally, he only brings up his creative blocks with Shiro, who tries his best to help out but doesn’t understand what Keith means. He tells him to just try, and work towards getting out of it; which would be solid advice if it wasn’t for the fact that by the time Keith brings it up, he’s already attempted that a thousand times over. “How do you usually…”

“Get out of it?” Lance supplies, popping the rest of the stolen piece of muffin into his mouth. Keith nods. He doesn’t have the decency to wait to be finished, but he does have the decency to cover his mouth while he answers. “Well, I don’t know if what I do would quite work out for an author. Usually I pull out my shit-sketchbook, the one that I don’t care about keeping neat,” He points the particularly large pocket in his apron, suggesting that he brings it with him to work. “And I tell myself to sketch for at least fifteen minutes. If I want to sketch longer, then fuck yeah! But if I don’t, then at least I know I made it fifteen minutes, and I did try. As long as I get something onto the paper, as shitty as it may be, I’m usually consoled for at least a little bit.”

Nodding his head slowly, Keith stays silent. That’s essentially the long and short of advice that Shiro had as well, maybe he’s just a little fucked.

Right as that doubting thought pops in the author’s mind, Lance continues to ramble, “But, sometimes drawing for fifteen minutes can be really frustrating and difficult. I can sit there staring at a blank page for ages, pen in hand, not knowing what the hell to put down. And trying to find a pose? Fuck that, that’s so difficult when stunted. The amount of portraits I’ve drawn of people who all look relatively the same is horrible, the lack of diversity in my shit-sketchbook is by no means an accurate representation of my art.”

Keith thought that was going to be the end of it, not sure where Lance could go from there, but the man goes as far as to pull his ‘shit-sketchbook’ out of his pocket, extending it out for Keith to take. Hesitant, Keith looks up to meet the artist’s eyes, unsure of if he’s supposed to be taking it, or if Lance is just showing that it does in fact exist. The little shake Lance gives the book is a universal sign that it isn’t the latter. Accepting it, Keith looks at the numerous stickers that cover the light blue cover of the sketchbook.

“You can look through it, you’ll see what I mean. All you’ve seen of my art was the perfectionist shit. All the completed stuff, and things I’m ultimately proud of. That right there is the struggle that outsiders and followers aren’t shown.”

_Is Lance being… vulnerable? Why is he showing me this? Is it just because he pities me, or something? This seems a little far to go if it’s just pity, he can get a sympathetic point across without doing this._

“Are you sure you want me looking through this? It sounds a little… personal, to you.”

“Oh please, that’s nothing. It isn’t necessarily personal, it’s just so shitty that you don’t go showing it off to followers. People like putting people on pedestals, you know? They don’t want to see the fuck ups, they wanna see the pretty shit. Besides, I don’t have a desire to show off that specific sketchbook, but it’s not like I’m wholly opposed to people looking through it. So you’re good, feel free to look at it. Let yourself be sucked in by my fuck ups.” Lance laughs in such a hearty, earnest fashion, that Keith can’t help but humor him; flipping over the first page of the sketchbook.

The table falls into a comfortable silence while Keith steadily leafs through. The first page held a colorful little chart, full of what appears to be watercolor swatches, however a majority of the sketches don’t have any ounce of color other than the one they were sketched in. While Keith would say Lance was a little hard on himself about the whole ‘shit-sketchbook’ thing, it was evident what Lance had meant. Nothing was branching out, and the things that were considered out of his ‘comfort zone’ (in example, figure studies) were all very unkempt and non-decipherable.

Pausing, Keith’s eyes narrow in on a particular sketch that’s far more… detailed than the rest. The drawing depicts a familiar looking man, sitting in a familiar looking booth, typing away on a familiar looking laptop. It’s definitely more involved than the previous ten pages straight of mug doodles and portraits. Peeking up, the author takes note of the fact Lance has paled significantly, and is staring down at the sketchbook like he’s seen a ghost.

“Is this… me?” Keith inquires reluctantly, hoping that he’s right, because the assumption is just a tad cocky.

“I, uh, shit that’s really creepy, isn’t it?” Lance hides his face behind his hands, shoulders drawn in tight, the bright flush of his cheeks spreading down to his neck and up to the tips of his ears.

“I don’t think I’d call it _creepy_ , per say. More surprising than anything. Why is there a drawing of me in here? Is this your way of trying to indirectly call me a piece of shit?”

“I appreciate your attempt at making me feel better, but no, although I wouldn’t deny those connotations.” Lance’s voice is muffled by his hands, so he lifts his head back up. “There’s a couple of reasons as to why I drew you. Firstly, when Allura commissioned me to make new pieces for the café, I needed to brainstorm on what to make. And, you’re here about as much of the workers, so you kind of feel like a staple here now. I figured I’d get that concept out, and the mental image of a painting of you sitting the way you usually do, hanging above you while you’re in the exact same pose, was really amusing to me.”

“Yeah, I was going to ask about that when I saw it in your art studio, but decided against it. What’s the second reason?”

“Well, the second reason is that I was just bored when rush hour was no longer… uh, rush hour and no one was coming in. Personally, I feel uncomfortable drawing random people, so I thought why not draw you? So, yep. Boredom and concepting, those were my reasons.”

Technically, Keith could further question why Lance would draw him of all people while bored. Especially when Lance’s manager is practically a goddess, and his best friend Hunk is literally a hunk.

Really, Keith has every right to go interrogating, and getting down to answering the nitty gritty ‘what if’s.

He could.

But he doesn’t want to.

Because honestly? He kind of feels like he’s floating right now. As if someone removed his brick coat, and just let him feel elated. A thought keeps peeking out, about how of all the people in this café, Lance wanted to do a project involving him. Lance wanted to draw him. Lance decided he would spend all those hours, all his hard work, and time, on piecing together a painting that involves Keith as the focus. Sure, it may mean fuck all, but that happy little thought is large enough that he’d prefer to not know. Blissful ignorance doesn’t seem so bad right now.

“Oh,” He mumbles instead, nodding his head in faux understanding before handing the sketchbook back. “I didn’t think they were all that bad.”

“Nah, maybe they aren’t. They’re just repetitive and uncreative, drawing something for the sake of drawing something, you know? But sometimes, I don’t even need the sketchbook. Point I was trying to make, was that sometimes it gets really infuriating to draw the same thing over and over. Like, hellishly self-aware. So, if the whole ‘do your creative thing for certain amount of time and accept it’ thing doesn’t work out for you, I suggest looking through things that inspire you. Listen to music, watch a movie, all that stuff. Like, I’ll watch Youtubers, play a game, or listen to music, and suddenly get inspired.”

“That… actually isn’t a bad idea,” Keith feels a little silly, wondering why he’s never thought of that before. There’s plenty of things he could do that would spur him on. “Watching conspiracy documentaries, and listening to music really could help a ton.”

“Ooo, or google deep dives!” Lance pipes excitedly; seemingly glowing at the thought of something he said being considered useful. “You’re a conspiracy theory junkie, deep diving on google is when you type in like, a random ass thing. Let’s say, for you, it’d be Mothman or some shit like that. Then from there, you just kinda get lost, and follow the links, and suddenly you’re watching two furries dressed as Mothman fuck.”

“I am mildly concerned that that’s where you brain went. How exactly did point A get to point B?”

“That’s the point of a deep dive, Mullet! You know where you started, but hell if you know how you ended up where you are! It may help, try it some time. Or don’t, you know, if you’re one of those weirdos who aren’t interested in seeing conspiracy furries fuck.” Lance is teasing, his eyes brightened once again.

“Oh yeah,” Keith drawls, rolling his eyes with a grin. “I’m one of those weirdos.”

Lance goes to say something, but immediately closes his mouth again and drops his head in his hands. “I was just…” He laughs an embarrassed laugh. “I was just about to say the abbreviation smh out loud, and I’ve never been more disappointed in myself in my life. That? That’s horrible. I am a true millennial, oh my gosh.”

“I’m about to make this worse.”

“I don’t know how you could, but I really wish you wouldn’t.”

“I have no clue what ‘smh’ means.”

“Suck my hickies.”

“What?!”

Lance throws his head back in laughter, and has to choke out through giggles, “No no, that’s not what it means, I’m fucking with you. It means ‘shake my head’. It’s like, the abbreviation of disappointment. But, it’s only acceptable in texting. Never just randomly say ‘smh’.”

Although confused as to why Lance was finding this so amusing, the laugh is infectious, and Keith can’t hold back a little giggle of this own. “I’ll keep that in mind, thanks for the heads up.”

“Oh, anytime. You can count on my stupid ass to make you feel a little bit smarter,” Lance mock salutes. “Anyway, I’ve got to head back to work here soon. Work… why do I feel like I’m missing something? Oh! Oh yeah, shit, do you know when you’ll be coming over? You need to work with me on thumbnailing, and telling me what exactly it is you want for the book. Also, if you could like, email me at some point, and send me the like first chapter at least, so I have something to work off of. Like, the vibe and everything. That would be A plus.”

“Oh, uh,” Keith grips his coffee a little tighter, momentarily sifting through his mental calendar to see if he’s got any plans. (He doesn’t, as usual.) “I don’t have any plans, when are you free?”

“I get off at… Hunk what time do I get off today?!”

“Four, it’s an early day Lance!”

“I get off at four, so we can either go straight there afterwards, or I’ll be ready at around five if I’m heading home first. That way I can shower and chill a little, you know?”

“Uh… which would you prefer?” _Holy shit I’m horrible at this, can he please stop leaving the decision making to me? I’m gonna say the wrong thing, and put him in a bad spot or something!_

“You know, this isn’t necessarily how most clients usually work, right?” Lance muses, cocking a single eyebrow.

“Guess you could say I’m not most clients then, huh?”

“No,” He smiles fondly. “No, you really aren’t. How about this, we leave right after. That way you can give me a ride home, and you don’t have to wait around longer. Win- win, yeah?”

“Yeah, of course, that works for me,” Keith smiles awkwardly. _You literally could of told me you were going to bust out the work right now and I would have agreed._

“Perfect! It’s a date!” Before Keith can process that word, Lance hops out of the seat. “Well, I’m glad you seem to be feeling a little better, happy to be of service. I’ll see you later!” Then with a wave, he’s walking back to the counter to get back to work.

If Keith sits there with the silliest, most sappy smile on his face, no one bothers to call him out on it.

_It’s a date._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize that how these chapters are separated is probably a tad frustrating, but I promise that as a cohesive story it probably looks better. If you saw the plan layout it'd make sense. Hopefully I'll be forgiven because uh Klance fluff incoming ya'll. 
> 
> Also, holy shit I wrote this in two days I was on a rOLL


	9. Chapter 9

“So, favorite barista I’ve ever had the honor of hiring who’s also been my best friend in the entire world for many a years,” Allura practically sing-songs the words, sidling up next to an unsuspecting Lance with a predatory grin painted across her face. Gracefully, she drapes her arms over one of his shoulders, resting her chin in between them. Squeaking, said victim of her sudden sneak attack stumbles, fumbling about clumsily with the large flour sack he had hoisted up. This doesn’t throw off the woman in charge in the very least, her body easily following his own as she continues. “Anything you wanna fill me in on, Lover Boy? Something of significance happen recently? You’re awfully hum-my here lately.”

“Lover Boy?” Lance grunts confusedly, heaving a strained breath as he puts all his energy into carefully placing the burlap flour sack down. “Wait a second…” He shrugs her off his shoulder before spinning around on his heels to face her, lips pursed in irritation and his arms crossed over his chest. “Please, pretty pretty please don’t tell me you nearly sent a like, sixty-dollar sack of flour to the floor, because you’re hellbent on catching me off guard and taking a peek into my, still lack of a, love life.”

Allura scoffs, pulling back with her own arms crossed in return. “Oh, _please_ , you insult me, Lance.” She points to the ceiling with her index finger in an uncharacteristically sassy fashion. “I’ll have you know I obtain nothing less than the absolute best judgement. I had an impeccable gut feeling that you weren’t going to drop that sack, I’d come up with a totally legitimate calculation of a sixty percent chance everything would be just fine. An above average chance, just in case you didn’t catch onto that! And, what do you know, you used the word ‘nearly’. You didn’t drop the sack, I was right, amazing unquestionable judgement strikes again.”

Jaw just barely agape, Lance’s shoulders go lax as he stares at his best friend in bewilderment. “I cannot believe you just said all of that, word for word, without cracking. Like, you were serious, that entire time. I’m a little concerned, like are you genuinely convinced that what you just said made perfect sense or are you just a fantastic actress, Princess?”

Giggling, Allura can’t help but crack, her finger lowering. She returns to the serious state after a second though, poking Lance’s chest a little forcefully. “Save the flattery for another time, Lance, I know you’re trying to change the subject! I have one goal and one goal only, you aren’t about to throw me off of this one. I am like a cat on a motorcycle, all claws, hanging on tight.”

“That was a strange visual, poor cat,” Lance mutters, blinking wildly before shaking his head and raising an eyebrow at Allura. “What exactly do you want? Because if it has anything to do with my love life, there is literally nothing I can offer. I don’t know what you’re seeing, but you may need to get your eyes checked out, Princess.”

“I think there’s a higher chance that you’re just ignorant to when someone is flirting with you than there is a chance of something being wrong with my vision,” Allura remarks matter-of-factly, raising her own arched eyebrow in return. “Honestly, the two of you get a good five minutes of flirting in where you don’t hold back, where you’re all kissy kissy wink wink, and then once there’s two seconds of silence it’s all ruined! You’re awkwardly laughing and going,” She does a male voice impression that Lance finds utterly distasteful. “Oh sorry, _bro,_ gotta go _bromeo,_ this is totally platonic and I definitely don’t want to have a completely domestic and wildly sexual relationship with you, _bro._ ” She drops the face she was making for added affect, bluntly adding in her normal voice, “If you could say ‘no homo’ you would. But you’re both out, and to both of your dismay, ‘no homo’ isn’t an option.”

“You been wearing some rose-colored glasses or some shit?” Lance inquires, leaning closer and flitting his eyes around Allura’s, as if searching for some invisible lenses he had never noticed. “I don’t know what the hell you’re seeing or hearing, but I would love to have five doses of whatever the fuck you’re on. Also I am, beyond uncomfortable hearing you talk about my sex life along with the love life thing. Let’s keep sex life out of this.”

“What about that time Keith said ‘not as long as mine’ and you suggestively replied with ‘I’ll believe it when I see it’, and Keith in a leap of faith said something like ‘then you get ready to believe it sweet cheeks’ or something like that? That was a rollercoaster, you both knew what one another was talking about, and instead of addressing it like ‘lol jk’ you instead awkwardly separated! That is not lol jk! That’s, lemme suck your dick-k!”

“He said ‘get ready to believe then, sweetheart’, first of all, if you’re going to call a girl out call her out right. Second of all, I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say the abbreviations ‘lol, jk’ out loud as if that’s something normal people casually do. Third of all, why the hell do you remember something like that so vividly? That had literally nothing to do with you, I didn’t even know you were around at the time!”

“I remember it so vividly because it’s a rare occurrence. Kind of like how you can’t remember if someone’s name is Linda, but if their name is as out there as Allura, it’s hard to forget. You two dance around each other on broken bottles and eggshells so much that it’s like, this great accomplishment if you two actually outright say something for once.” She adds on, “Also I definitely was there, you even approached me on the whole ‘holy shit what do I do’ thing. But even if I wasn’t, Pidge, Hunk, Shiro and I all have a group chat that you and Keith aren’t allowed in. I would have found out whether I was there or not, we’re great at keeping track.”

“You what?!” Lance drops his head in his hands, holding back a scream and replacing it with a borderline obnoxious groan. “Every embarrassing interaction has probably been documented by you guys. It’s official, I literally have the worst friends ever. This friendship is cancelled. Allura? Never heard of her, don’t know her.”

“Listen, Lance,” Allura grabs his arm, pulling it down so they’re eye to eye. “Not to totally be an invasive bitch, who’s like definitely over this mutual pining you and Lover Boy Number Two have going on, but I really need to know if like, you genuinely think nothing is up. Because, if so, you’re literally the only one aside from Keith who doesn’t see what’s going on. As friends who care about you two bunches, and want you guys to be the happiest of all happies, we’re just wanting you two to cut the bush down instead of beating around it all the time!” Lance doesn’t budge, instead staring at her utterly unimpressed. “Fine, I’ll let you take home the leftover muffins if you tell me.”

“Bribery is so beneath you, Princess.” Exhausted, Lance puts his hand over Allura’s and gently pries it off, then leans up against the shelf with his head tilted upward. Mentally, he counts to ten, and then looks back down to face Allura once more.

“There is genuinely nothing happening, and I would love to see the world through whatever perfect rose-colored glasses you and the others are wearing, but it’s not happening. Sure, we flirt. And yeah, sometimes for a good five minutes, I get the impression that just maybe he likes me. Because he smiles, and his eyes are warm, and I’m like ‘damn that’s rare what does he see in me that make them so warm’. But then it’s like he mentally rears back, and his eyes are back to normal, and it’s as if nothing ever happened. So, no, nothing is happening, no nothing has happened recently.”

“I find that painfully difficult to believe.”

Lance shrugs, “That’s all I’ve got for you. I recently became his illustrator, as in I’m illustrating his new book, so maybe we’re talking more? Like we have to meet up more often.”

“You what?!” Allura pipes up, standing straight. “Why is it that I’m only just now hearing about this? When exactly did this happen? I demand answers, Lance!”

“Uh, what day is it?”

“Like, July… eighth?”

“Shit, it’s only been four days? You can’t be serious, it feels like this happened forever ago…” Lance shakes his head, time is weird. “When he visited my apartment on July fourth to look at my art is the day he offered to take me on as an illustrator, and I agreed the same day. I have been an employed illustrator for a whole four days. Oh my God I’m an employed illustrator.”

“You went four days without telling me?! Never mind, no muffins for you.”

“Uh, absolutely not, no take backs! That’s not how these things work, we had a deal which me being an illustrator wasn’t a part of.”

“Okay fine fine,” Allura purses her lips, looking around the crowded little backroom, rocking back and forth on her heels. Lance just knows she’s holding something in, and he’s about to bite the bullet and ask what now, but slowly she eyes him once again while a grin crawls on her face. “You’re a hired illustrator,” She states in an excited whisper, icy blue eyes alight with joy.

The joy is contagious, and Lance can’t help but nod his head quickly with a grin of his own. “I, Lance McClain, am a hired illustrator. Professional, to the max.” His response is just as quiet, but a thousand times more excited.

“Look at you go!” Allura jumps up, slapping Lance’s shoulder lightly. “My best friend is a professional artist.”

“Uh, my best friend is literally a business owner, what are you on about?”

“Oh, please, business owning is just understanding money and how to boss people around.”

“Art is just many long long years of practicing almost daily and crying yourself to sleep nightly. It’s also breaking down, and staring into the abyss of nothingness that is your soul, when something very small goes wrong. Like, a pen not being as waterproof as it claims to be.”

Allura breaks out into laughter, shaking her head in mock disbelief. “Okay okay, just let me be excited that you’re so successful!”

“I would tell you, ‘oh it’s no big deal’, in like an extremely smooth and tough guy fashion but I kinda had a mini heart attack when he asked me, so it was kind of a big deal.”

“And now you get to hang out with Lover Boy Number Two more, can I say two birds with one stone?”

“Yeah, no,” Lance’s laughter goes awkward, but his little grin persists nonetheless. “I’ve told you, Princess, nothing is happening. Is what it is.”

“And I’m telling you that you’re blind, and the two of you should… talk more. Like, don’t just shove things aside when the two of you start mutually flirting. Talk about it.”

“Allura,” Lance mutters pleadingly. “Please, nothing is happening. I barely even know him!”

“Really, now? All of those sleepovers where you’ve rambled nonstop about the color of his eyes, or his horrible cooking skills really beg to differ.”

“I just,” Lance is growing frustrated.

This is a topic Lance loathes, because he’s done this before. He’s fallen before. He’s fallen head over heels; dived into the deep end without learning how to swim. He knows what he’s like. His keen ability to get too excited is what faults him the most. He sees a chance, a teeny tiny little spark of a chance, and he abuses it. His hopes rise and rise and rise based on nothing at all, and he conjures all these scenarios and thoughts and ideas, and then he gets disappointed when it doesn’t happen. He’d rather stop himself before he starts; he’s already gotten in too deep.

“I’m gonna walk out of this hurt, and after you know who…”

“Forget about her. Forget about that stupid cunt, fuck,” Allura grits her teeth, body tensing at the thought of Lance’s ex. “Don’t you compare her to Keith, you know he is nothing and will never be anything like her. She was an abusive manipulative bitch. Keith is sweet, and a little socially incompetent, but he cares about you. He wanted to see your art, Lance. He was so interested in you, and your hobbies, that he requested to see your art. Keith, the guy who would rather bury himself alive than initiate something social. She never did that for you! She called you degrading names, and made you feel ashamed! Keith, Keith likes you for you.”

“No no I know,” Lance chokes up, covering his face, drawing his shoulders in tight. “It’s just a lot, you know that Allura. I know, but I’m fucking irrational and stupid, and things are difficult, and I’m. I’m trying, I’m working on it, never would I compare him to her. Never, never ever ever. She was wicked witch of the west, I know that. But it just seems too…”

“Too good to be true?”

Sighing brokenly, Lance nods his head. “Yeah. Someone actually liking me? Like, me? Allura, have you met me?”

“Yeah, I think I’ve met you once or twice,” Allura teases softly, smiling despite the tears building up in her own eyes. “And, those impeccable judgement skills? They’re telling me you’re an amazing human being, worthy of so much more than what the world and life offers you. So, how about you take both life and the world by the bullhorns, and you fuck its shit up? You’re gonna be okay, hun.”

“You,” Lance points and laughs out a sob. “You are the best person in the existence of ever, and I love you.”

“Yeah yeah, love you too, dork.” Allura waves her hand and rolls her eyes. She pulls Lance into a hug, squeezing him tight before pulling back and placing her hand on his shoulder. “You go on ahead, grab the muffins and Lover Boy Number Two, if you wanna go clean up so he doesn’t know you were crying you know where the bathroom is.”

“Bless you, Princess,” Lance says, mock saluting with two fingers, giving her another quick hug before he heads down to the employee bathroom.

_Get it together, Lance._ Staring at his reflection intently, the man doesn’t even have the energy to be upset about the fact there’s now little pink rings lining his eyes. Turning on the faucet, he mindlessly watches the water run for a moment. Frozen, a little disassociated. What is he doing again? _Wash your face, Lance. Then grab some muffins and grab your man. Or well, no, not your man. Keith isn’t your man. Don’t think like that; not your man. How dare you place claim on someone? Isn’t that like, bad? Whatever, shut up thoughts. Water, face, muffins, right._

Without anymore personal interruptions, he’s quick to splash his face, dry it off with a couple of paper towels, and walk out of the bathroom before even bothering to check to see if splashing water actually achieved anything. He’d rather not know.

“Feeling better?” Allura asks upon his arrival. She’s now standing in front of the shelf like Lance had been, working to restock it instead. (The barista tries to not feel embarrassed over the fact she ever so effortlessly lifted the very same flour sack he had been struggling with. Has nothing to do with the fact she’s female, everything to do with the fact of holy shit he struggled an insane amount how is she doing that.) Noticing him staring, Allura tacks on, “If you offer help, I’m throwing this at you and I’m aiming for your head.”

“You know, how appreciative you are is one of the things that made me go ‘yeah, I want this girl to be my friend’.” The barista sarcastically remarks, rolling his eyes but grinning nonetheless. “And, yeah, just a little bit. Thanks for talking with me, Allura, I know I can be a bit of an emotional wreck,” He laughs, a natural defense mechanism to take the edge off of particularly serious situations, but it comes out painfully pessimistic and humorless. It even makes him wince; that wasn’t one of his best fake laughs.

“Oh, don’t give me that,” Allura says, rolling her eyes and chuckling a little. “You never bother me, you’re human with emotions. I’ve been your best friend since forever, you shouldn’t be apologizing for coming to me. That’s what friends are for. So I’ll take your thanks, and move on, yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah,” He bites down the natural apology, instead busying himself with packing the muffins into a large plastic container. Go big or go home, he’s taking as many as he possibly can, Allura put zero numerical rules on the deal. “Alright,” Lance lifts the container, which is filled to the brim (the lid had to be forcefully returned back to its rightful spot) in a mock wave. “I’m gonna head out, I’ve kept Keith waiting for ages. I’ll be surprised if he’s even still waiting out there, honestly, kind of feels like I’ve stood him up somehow.”

“Be back by midnight!” Allura calls jokingly.

“Yes, mom!”

Feeling lighter than he had before, Lance essentially skips out of the backroom, excitedly humming along to the music playing overhead when he realizes it’s an artist he recently convinced Allura of adding to the café playlist.

“I was just about to go see if you were okay…” A voice pipes up, at first laced with concern, but it gradually bleeds into amusement. “Guess I don’t need to ask, huh? You seem… bright.” Then it bleeds into something that Lance would reluctantly call… perhaps, jealousy? Which, doesn’t make an ounce of sense. Is Keith jealous that he’s happy or something? That’s, like, really depressing.

“Well, Mr. Mullet McGee, I do in fact happen to be happy, and everything is just fine. How about you, LordofDarkness666?” Lance teases, sliding over the counter and squeaking when the muffins nearly go tumbling out of his hand. Why didn’t he set these down on the counter before sliding over it? That could of gone so much smoother. “Also,” He victoriously holds up the muffins, laughing a tad shakily over the adrenaline rush almost dropping them gave him. “I haveth muffins for the munching upon.”

“You are a class A dork. Also, did you just call me LordofDarkness666? How the hell did you know my myspace name, I wasn’t friends with you on there?”

“Keith, before I lose what little hope I have left in humanity, please tell me that you’re kidding and that I didn’t just spot on name your angsty emo teenage username. I may just have to ejaculate myself into the sun if that’s the case.”

Freezing, Keith chokes on a surprised giggle, before full on breaking out into boisterous, socially unacceptably loud laughter. “Oh my-“ He chokes on the words, laughing so hard he doubles over, clutching his sides. “Oh my God, I can’t breathe!” He wheezes, laughter wavering in and out of insanely loud and entirely noiseless.

Confused, Lance can’t help but giggle along with the contagious amusement. The barista doesn’t think he’s ever seen the other laugh this hard in his life. What’s so funny, what’d he say?

As if reading his mind, Keith barely gets out the words, “Ejaculates into the sun! Like-” Unable to finish the sentence, the author decides to substitute it with a visual representation; him making a jerk off motion.

“Wha-. Oh. Oh my God, what- what’s the word?! I didn’t mean that, I meant, you know, the word!” Now Lance is laughing, cheeks flushing a crimson color at the mistake.

“Eject!” Keith practically yells, the laughter melting into far calmer giggles. “You meant to say eject! Eject yourself into the sun! But like, don’t, you’d die. Also, don’t ejaculate into the sun. Don’t know how that’d work, but something tells me that considering the close proximity you’d have to be at, that would result in death too.”

“I can’t believe I just sexualized the sun like that, poor sun. And without their consent too! It’s official, I’m a dick.” Lance covers his face, another string of giggles muffled by his hands. “Did I really just say that? Geeze. _Ejaculate into the sun._ Fuck, man. What even is English? I’m transitioning back to Spanish; this shit is difficult.”

“That’s the best thing that has ever happened in my life, and I want you to know that never will I ever let you live down the beautiful phrase ‘ejaculate myself into the sun’.”

“No hablo ingles,” Lance says, face mock apologetic as he gives an exaggerated shrug. The words rolled off of his tongue flawlessly; the accent seeming to come natural to him.

Puzzled, the author grips onto the strap of his bag, tilting his head to the side thoughtfully. With the way his eyebrows are furrowed and his bottom lip is jutted out in the smallest of pouts, Lance can’t help but compare him to a confused puppy. “Alright, I understood the first part, the no speaking English part, but what was that other word? Air-eh-moe-so?”

“You know, I was almost tempted to tell you, like this,” He makes a little space between his index finger and thumb. “This close. But then you just had to go and try to pronounce it, thus displaying your grotesque abomination of a Spanish accent, which ruined it all. In fact, I’m so genuinely offended, that I’ve just now, like this very second, decided to drop this friendship all together. Google is your new friend, ask google.”

“그럼 한국어로 말해봐.” Keith replies, his face straight as if he’d spoken normally.

 “What in the actual fuck was anything that you just said, and what language was it even in? Like, I’m not even going to try and butcher that like you butchered Spanish. I don’t even remember what you like, even said. What string of letters even made those… words? Noises?” Lance blurts without thinking, entirely caught off guard by whatever it was Keith had just said. Whatever it was, he spoke it at least a little fluently, and had the accent down perfectly.

“Maybe you should ask google, google is your new friend.” Keith starts walking outside, grinning triumphantly. There’s a little pride that comes with knocking a cocky Lance down a notch.

“Hey, hey, that’s not fair! Stop walking away from me, Mullet!” Lance gets a firm grip on the muffins before jogging after a certain black-haired bang having emo author who’s already out the door and approaching his bike. “You didn’t understand one word in my sentence, I didn’t understand a single thing you said! I don’t even know how I’d google that, I’m almost positive that wasn’t any part of the English or Spanish alphabet.”

Fitting his bag into the motorcycle’s compartment, Keith only flits his eyes up to shoot Lance a look that effortlessly reads ‘sounds like a personal problem’ paired with an exaggerated shrug before he returns to packing his things up.

“Absolutely not, this sassiness from you is unacceptable Kogane! Don’t make me fight you, I will throw down.”

Sighing in dramatic defeat, Keith throws a hand up in the air as if to yell ‘fine!’. “I essentially said, ‘then speak some Korean’. Which, guess my point has been made, huh?”

Ignoring the slight jab, Lance responds, “That was Korean?! Dude how do you know Korean? Like, I know Spanish because my family originates from Cuba. We actually moved to America when I was just a bump in my mom’s stomach, which means ya boy was born in America miss me with that becoming a citizen shit.” Realizing how much he’d been rambling, Lance cuts himself off before he can go on another tangent.

“Oh, I don’t know that I’ve got a story like that.” Keith leans up against his bike, amethysts focused intently on the matte black helmet in hand.

 “Shiro, coming from a richie-rich family had to learn a bunch of languages, because his parents wanted him ‘cultured’ or whatever? They essentially wanted him to be able to make business deals with people from other countries, and bullshit them into swooning just by knowing their language. So, he’s fluent in a lot of different languages. And, I guess I was a little jealous of this? I thought knowing other languages was the coolest shit ever, and with me being in middle school at the time, I guess I wasn’t really the best at hiding the fact I thought it was cool. So, to bond with me, he asked me to choose a language I want to learn, and started to give me lessons. He wasn’t nearly as excited about the whole languages thing, considering it’d been something he had his whole life, but it was a way for us to hang out.”

“First of all, that is possibly the cutest thing I’ve ever heard in the existence of ever. Second of all, when exactly did you come into Shiro’s life? I’m still trying to figure that timeline out, I was never good at history.”

“Well,” Keith hands Lance the spare helmet. “His parents adopted me in the seventh grade, and I started public school in the eleventh. So, I’ve been around a decently long time. I was in the picture for four years, before I was finally forced to get out of the house and do public school.”

Nodding his head, Lance puts his helmet on. “Yeah, that makes sense. How Shiro was able to keep you a secret for so long, I’ll never know, that guy can’t tell a lie to save his life.”

“Pidge and Matt knew about me.”

“What?!”

“They used to visit Shiro like every other day, and for a while it was all good. I’d use my room as a hideout, and they’d do their thing. But, one day I thought they were gone, left to get a snack, they weren’t gone, etcetera etcetera.” Keith swings his leg over the bike, comfortably situating himself but holding off on starting it up.

“I can’t believe they never told me, those little traitors!”

“Eh, Shiro made them promise to not tell anyone on my behalf. Still didn’t really want anyone knowing I existed. But, that’s why Pidge and I get along well. They were super into conspiracies, and cracking the secrets of the government. I was too, but they really fueled the whole curious fire I’ve got going now.”

“Everything is starting to make so much sense, and I feel like the blindest person to exist.”

“Yeah, yeah, contemplate how stupid you feel on the drive to your place.”

“That was a really subtle way of telling me to get on the bike so we can leave already.”

“I’m not aiming for subtlety, I’m aiming for progress, let’s go McClain!”

Tapping his chin, Lance hums in contemplation. “I don’t know, Mullet, it’s only a little after four, and I’m pretty comfortable where I am right now.”

“I will drive off without you.” Keith deadpans, putting the key in the ignition, and revving the engine for added effect.

“Okay, okay!” Lance appears to be grumbling something under his breath, but over the sound of the motorcycle’s engine, Keith can’t catch a word of what he’s saying. If he had to make an honest guess, it’s probably something very Lance-like. For instance, ‘I shouldn’t be treated like this’, or ‘I’m too beautiful to be rushed’. Something along those general lines.

“Motherfucking Keith and his motherfucking mullet and hot ass motherfucking motorcycle that he built with his own motherfucking hot ass hands, how dare he threaten me like this, I’m the one who has the muffins he’s gonna be sorry when I don’t let him have one. And to think, I grabbed so many banana nut muffins with him in mind. He’s never getting the nut now… That was horrible phrasing.”

Yeah, something along those lines.

 

*******************

Once again settled in Lance’s pastel wonderland of an apartment, the author strangely feels a thousand times more comfortable than he had the first visit. Which, is something he tries to convince himself is normal. After all, it isn’t like he was visiting a stranger’s home. Still, however, it almost felt uncomfortable to be comfortable. Especially if he’s only visiting the place a second time around, two visits isn’t nearly enough for someone like Keith to feel comfortable in an environment.

Yet nevertheless, here he is, arranged on the familiar powder blue couch, sipping out of a primary yellow mug, holding a matching tea saucer which has a large banana nut muffin sat on it. The glass coffee table in front of him has scattered papers spread across it, from what Keith assumes is Lance’s late night ‘I don’t want to set up in my art studio, but I want to do art’ kind of sessions. He can relate, considering the many times he’s, as mentioned, fallen asleep in random places from just writing wherever he pleases. Amongst the scattered mess is Keith’s open laptop; the screen displaying the first chapter to his story.

“Alright, so, I think this is a majority of what I need? I’d apologize for all of the clutter, but you’re my friend and this is my place. You’re hardly a guest,” Lance is holding a decently sized sketchbook, probably somewhere around the size 5 inches by 8 inches, a pencil case, and some sort of little metal box which is substantially smaller than the sketchbook.

“I’m technically your boss,” Keith points out bluntly, taking a sip of the coffee.

“I will not hesitate to stick a paintbrush up your ass, don’t test me.”

A beat of silence.

 “Actually,” Lance takes in the mess, scrunching his nose up in irritation while looking at the items in hand, which he’s now realizing don’t have a place to sit on the glass table with all the clutter. “I do apologize for the mess, but I apologize to myself. How dare I let myself do this to myself? I should love myself more,” Lance rambles to himself under his breath, setting the needed items on the arm of the couch as he starts to clean up to table. Keith opens his mouth. “I can already hear you offering help; don’t you dare.” Keith closes his mouth.

“Okay, good to go,” Lance carelessly flops down on the couch next to Keith, before sliding down and sitting on the floor in front of the table.

“Uh…” Keith raises an eyebrow, and looks down at himself, wordlessly asking if he should take the floor as well.

“I’m horrible at sketching on the couch, because there’s zero balance in these skinny ass legs, and also the position you have to sit in in order to do that like really kills my legs after thirty minutes. So, you can take the couch all you want, but I’m gonna work from here. Also, it means I can reach my coffee better, and I don’t have to awkwardly lean over you to read what’s on your laptop! Win-win.” Without waiting for a response, Lance starts setting up. Flipping open his sketchbook to the first page, unzipping his pencil case to pull out a red colored pencil, and setting the little tin off to the side. “I’m so fancy and prepared, I bought a new sketchbook for the sole purpose of thumbnailing and planning.”

“Wow, uh, that’s pretty… neat.”

“Ew.”

“What?”

“Please, never talk like that again. If you don’t know what to say, just smile and nod. Or brood and nod, whatever quenches your emo thirst the most.”

“What exactly is an emo thirst?”

“The thirst to emo. Duh.”

“Right…”

“Which!” Lance excitedly points a finger, grinning as if he knows something blackmail worthy. “I couldn’t help but notice that your motorcycle can play music through Bluetooth, and your phone auto-connected, and while the music was turned all the way down, the little touch screen thingy showed what was instantly playing. I knew you were a Panic fan, Mullet! Grade A emo.”

“Um, excuse you, Brendon Urie is a hot blessing on this earth and even non-emos can admit that his music is good?”

“Okay all I caught was you saying ‘even non-emos’ which means you are fully admitting to being an emo. I win, this conversation is over, work time!” Lance claps his hands, doing a little shoulder dance as he turns his attention back to his sketchbook.

“Uh, that doesn’t mean I admitted to being emo at all? I could be one of the non-emos I speak of. Also, what even classifies as an emo?”

“Lalala, I can’t hear you! I’m listening to you talk about a discussion I have already decided I won, moving on. Lance McClain isn’t taking the loss on this one, Keithy-boy!”

“You are a small child trapped in a tall man’s body.”

“Really? Sounds to me like you’re the man-child, with your being so upset with your loss. Don’t be such a sore loser, Mullet!”

“I’m not being a-!” Keith cuts himself off when he sees the shit eating grin Lance is wearing. Unable to bite back a chuckle, he leans down a little and smacks Lance’s arm with his free hand. “You’re such a dick!”

“Well, you know what they say! You are what you eat. Now, are you here to work, or is my new boss really this unprofessional?”

Sputtering, Keith chokes a little on a laugh and wheezes out an, “Oh my God, I’m working with a walking meme.”

Lance clicks his tongue, “Unprofessional I tell you.”

“You just made a comment about _sucking_ dick!” The author yells through his laughs, setting down his muffin so he can throw his arms in the air.

“No, I made a comment about _eating_ dick. I’m a cannibal, Keith.”

“You do realize more than just humans have dicks, right?”

Gagging, Lance covers his mouth and shakes his head quickly. “This conversation went spiraling down so fast, when does the actual work part come in?”

“Right now, it comes in right now. Anything to put an end to that God awful mental image you just gave me.”

Lance shudders, face contorted in disgust. “Please, don’t put anymore thoughts in my head.”

“Don’t worry, I’m working too hard on getting the thought out of my own head.” A beat of disgusted, regretful silence. The author decides to slide off the couch and take the seat on the floor next to the artist. “Anyway! Let’s look at chapter one, shall we?”

“Uh,” Lance coughs to cover his surprise, cheeks flushing at the way their thighs are pushed together. “Yeah, uh, we shall.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was essentially almost 6k words of pure dialogue.
> 
> Updates are about to get slow, ya'll, school is draining the life out of me.
> 
> Also, Allurance is my brotp


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This didn't go as planned...

Nothing has felt more captivating than watching an artist at work. It’s spellbinding, nothing short of mesmerizing. To be an onlooker who freely gazes as an artist works steadily, breathing little huffs of breath out of their nose whenever a particularly difficult segment of the drawing demands their utmost attention. Watching their facial expression contort oddly, thoughtlessly, to fit that of the character they’re depicting. To admire how quickly they conjure up seemingly simple colors, and lay them down in what seems like a sporadic fashion. However, in the end, it looks perfectly messy; as if every stroke was made with purpose.

Or, perhaps that’s just a Keith watching Lance experience. Perhaps, to a majority of the public, watching someone draw isn’t the most enticing of pass times. But, Keith be damned if his typing didn’t slowly stutter to a complete halt as he became gradually more entranced by the swift red pencil marks being drawn across the textured pages.

At first, it had started out as the two of them sticking to their own. Keith would be a nitpicky personal editor, combing through every mistake he felt his chapter had to offer, while Lance worked out some rough concepts for what he and Keith talked over. Only did they ever pause in order to give one another critique. But, Keith was acutely aware of how his own pauses became a bit more frequent, as he couldn’t restrain himself from constantly peeking over at Lance’s work.

“You know, I can feel you staring at me, and it’s just a _teeny tiny bit_ distracting,” Lance mumbles, still so sucked into his own little artistic world that the teasing tone didn’t translate nearly as much as he’d intended. “Am I doing something wrong, Mr. Boss-man? Or, do you just not understand the concept of ‘staring is rude, don’t stare’?” Now his tone held that familiar teasing tinge, a grin sneaking up on the corner of his lips as he sneaks a glance at Keith’s distraught face. It took all he could muster to not giggle at the pale look of what he believes can be described as horrified embarrassment at being caught red handed.

“I just- the scratching, of the pencil, on the like, textured paper. Kept getting kind of distracting so I just, stuck to watching you,” Keith tries to play it off as nonchalantly as his wavering voice and anxious vibe would allow him.

“Ah,” Lance wasn’t entirely convinced that was the case, but nods his head in understanding anyways. “Sorry about that, my man, not exactly something I can help. I’d offer getting another pencil, but honestly it doesn’t matter what I use, it’s gonna sound like that, and this is the only type of paper I buy aside from far more textured watercolor paper.”

Nodding his head dumbly, Keith murmurs, “No, it’s alright, doesn’t bother me enough to complain about. Or, uh, at all really.” Before he can completely return his attention back to the darkening screen of his laptop, the author musters up the courage to ramble out, “Actually uh, I understand why people watch your livestreams. Like, uh. You’re fun to watch draw? You do things so… smoothly. Effortlessly, as if you know exactly what you’re going to do way before you do it. It’s distracting, almost a little hypnotizing. That’s, that’s why I was watching. Not because of the pencil scratching. I can write in a bustling café, where like kids scream and such, so like… the pencil doesn’t bother me at all.”

“Oh,” Lance squeaks, before flushing a deep red color and clearing his throat. “Uh, thank you. That, means a lot. I don’t really know much of what I’m doing though… Obviously, you know, I’ve got a basic idea in my head. But, I just go with the flow and tweak what I want to deliberately every now and again.”

“No need to thank me, it’s just the truth,” Now Keith’s own cheeks are rivalling the primary red of Lance’s coffee table. “And, I get what you mean. That’s basically how writing works, I’ve got a basic idea and then it goes where it wants to. Although, I have to stick to facts and can’t get too sidetracked, so I guess that’s a big difference. But, in fictional writing, that’s how it goes.”

“Did you just refer to your conspiracy theories as factually based and nonfictional?”

Wow, Keith has never felt so silly about conspiracy theories in his life. The author has had plenty of run-ins with people who would jab at his interest in government secrets; plenty of people who have been far from understanding and patient. The amount of times someone has scoffed before bringing up his interest in conspiracies in order to completely debunk whatever argument he may have, is more than can be counted on both hands. He’s talked about them with Lance before, why the hell does he feel like the biggest moron in the world now?

“I mean, I don’t just like, make up the shit I write on my own. I have a lot of evidence and similar theories to back stuff up, you know. I can’t go on complete bullshit, I wouldn’t be taken seriously if that were the case. Then again, a lot of people don’t take me very seriously if they know I write conspiracies. Or that I’m even interested in conspiracies, it’s always held against me. Pidge is like, the only one who hasn’t jokingly or non-jokingly ridiculed me for it, and instead joined in, so-“ The author became progressively more jittery as he spoke, arms wrapping tightly around his frame while he mindlessly began curling in on himself.

“Hey, Keith, slow down there, buddy,” Lance places his hand on Keith’s shoulder, flinching when Keith flinches at the contact. “Sorry, sorry,” The artist jerks his hand away in shock, awkwardly hovering it for a moment before he stuffs it into his lap. Hot shame flooding his system, topped with enough dread to make him feel like dropping into a blackhole. “I’m not being serious though. Dude, as much as I tease you about the conspiracy theory thing, it is interesting. I understand why someone would fall down the rabbit hole, and drawing the creepy shit is fun. So, it’s okay alright? I take you seriously, if I didn’t we wouldn’t be sitting next to one another as work partners in my apartment.”

“Sorry- I, fuck.” _Now is not the time to break down crying, now is not the time to scream into a pillow, now is not the time to be a complete fucking wreck. Pull yourself together, dammit._ Unfurling, Keith taps a simple beat onto his knee to ground himself and shakes his head in disappointment with himself. “I know you’re not being serious, I don’t know why I reacted like that.”

“No, dude, I get it,” Lance’s tense frame eases up a bit as he shrugs his shoulders. “I’ve been told my job and dreams are a joke my entire life. I get the occasional text from my dad asking if I’ve, quote on quote, finally figured my life out yet. To which I always respond that one, I’m a young adult so technically no, but two that the plan I do have involving art hasn’t changed. Always pisses him off, I get the cold shoulder for up to a month every time.”

Smiling reassuringly, Lance glazes past the family struggle as if it’s no big deal, seeing as this wasn’t about him, and continued on, “So, I get it. Wholeheartedly, without an ounce of me bullshitting you, I get it. I get feeling stupid, and constantly demeaned for a personal interest, and I’m sorry I made you feel like that. It wasn’t my intention, it’s never my intention.”

“Geeze, what a dick,” Keith mutters in reference to Lance’s dad. Groaning, he shakes his head before tacking on, “You shouldn’t _have_ to apologize, we’ve joked before. I’ve joked before. I just guess that in the moment, it felt off, and my socially incompetent ass took it the wrong way.”

“Heyyy, you aren’t socially incompetent.” Keith responds with a deadpan stare, lips pursed slightly as if to say ‘don’t fucking lie to me’. “Okay, so you’re a little socially incompetent,” Lance caves; Keith continues to stare. Throwing his arms in the air, Lance laughs out, “Alright, so maybe you really aren’t the best at being a functional social human being, but everyone makes the occasional social cue mistake! I’m sure that if we were in a crowd and people were listening in, a lot of them would think I was being serious as well. So chill, dude, you’re good. Just, know that I don’t think you’re crazy or whatever. Like I said, conspiracies are cool and it’s understandable why people get into them.”

“Yeah,” Keith nods his head, turning his attention to his laptop screen for a moment before looking Lance in the eyes once again. “Can’t really be considered nonfictional though, can it? I mean, it is called a conspiracy _theory_ ,” he muses, grinning in an easygoing manner.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t suspect you’d find a conspiracy book in a nonfictional aisle. Probably in like, a mystery aisle, wedged between the fact and the fiction books.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” Keith’s brows furrow. “Now that I think of it, I’ve never gone looking for my book in a bookstore. I know it’s there, because I’m in the know on where my book is officially sold, but I’ve just never bothered to go looking. Never crossed my mind.”

“Oh, _bullshit_ , really?” Lance scoffs, whipping around so his body is facing him entirely. Keith nods confusedly, opening his mouth to inquire what’s got the man all worked up, but is cut off before he can even get so much as a syllable out. “I call bullshit on that, what the hell? If I knew I had an artbook being sold in stores all around, I’d fucking look for it all the time. That’s such a huge accomplishment! To see my work, in stores, for people to look at and pick up and buy! I’d want to see that in real life, just to make sure it was real!”

“The check is real enough for me,” Keith shrugs, lips pursed in a nonplussed pout. “Not that I like, do it for the money. It’s really cool that I get paid for my writing, yeah, but like. I meant that as in, it’s obviously real if I’m getting a check every two weeks, you know?”

“That still wouldn’t be real enough for me, nope. Someone could still be jerking on my dick, I’d have to see my book, in person, on a shelf, in a real store. Not until then would I be able to convince myself it wasn’t a dream. I still call bullshit that you’ve never seen your book in stores. Writing is such a huge deal for you, you’d definitely react the same way as me!”

“Well, technically I have-“

“Ha! Knew it! I called bullshit right off the bat and I was right!”

“-because Shiro has sent me a picture of him posing with the display case the first week it came out. And Pidge sent me a picture of them flicking off the big advertising poster that was hanging outside of that bookstore down the road from the café. So, yeah, I’ve never seen it in person, but I know it’s there.”

Mouth agape, Lance stares disbelievingly at Keith before slowly closing it shut and dropping his head in his hands. “This will not stand.”

“What?”

Lance throws his arms up, not understanding how the hell Keith doesn’t understand how insane it is that he’s never seen his own book in person in stores. “This is blasphemy of the highest order, and I will not stand for it! You,” He sharply points at Keith, finger a centimeter away from poking his nose, eyes narrowing dangerously. “You are going to see your book in stores if I have anything to do with it. Which I fucking do.”

Eyes crossing comically to stare at the finger, Keith raises an eyebrow and inquires, “How might you have anything to do with it?”

“I’ve decided that I’m going to make you dinner, which means we’re going to have to go grocery shopping. Which means, you and I are going shopping, in the wonderland that is Walmart, and we’re seeking out your book. Is it sold at Walmart?”

“Well, yeah, but- “

“Nope! You aren’t denying dinner, you aren’t denying grocery shopping with me, and you aren’t denying finding your book! It’s happening, I’ve already decided it, it’s set in stone. I’m determined, and I don’t budge a fucking ant’s length if I’m determined. So, quit while you’re ahead, Mullet!”

“You’re really going to force me to go to the store with you? Lance, it’s okay, you don’t have to feed me or whatever. It’s only-” He looks at the clock on his laptop. “It’s only seven, I’ve got plenty of time to head home and whip something up for myself.”

“You can’t cook for shit.”

“Alright, I’ve got time to head home and order pizza. Don’t give me that look, McClain!”

“Yeah, no, you’re staying and you’re having a decent meal that doesn’t involve takeout or forcing Shiro to put forth what little kitchen knowledge he’s got.”

“Hey, Shiro has gotten better! He, you know, doesn’t burn scrambled eggs now. He’s actually pretty decent at cooking, all the staying at home stuff has given him time to experiment and practice. Even Hunk would be proud of him.”

“Huh,” Lance nods his head in appreciation. “Non-charred eggs? That is quite the upgrade from high school Shiro. Also, Hunk is proud of everyone. You could spell ‘bees’ right, and he’d cry tears of pride. But, stop sidetracking me! It still isn’t enough reasoning, set in stone I tell you! So, off your ass!” Lance claps his hands, and does the motion of shoving Keith without the physical contact. “It’s seven you said? It’s gonna be one hell of a late dinner if we don’t get a move on.”

“You know, I am the one with the motor vehicle, right? And, I don’t have to drive you anywhere. I could just, pack my things and leave.”

“Yeah, I have a sneaking suspicion you wouldn’t do that to me, LordofDarkness666. Besides, you get free food out of this! This really isn’t a losing situation for you.”

“Lance, if you wanted to take me out on a romantic domestic dinner date then you could have just asked,” Keith leans in exaggeratedly close, fluttering his lashes in a way that’s meant to be obnoxious but still has Lance’s heart skipping a beat.

Shoving the man back, Lance laughs weakly and rolls his eyes, “Oh, fuck off, Mullet, in your dreams.” As much as Lance wishes he could say he had said that with complete confidence and the same amount of smooth teasing as usual, it just wouldn’t be the truth. The shaking in his voice was everything but conspicuous, and every ounce of suspicious. Mustering up a false bravado, he claps his hands once more before shouting, “Now, chop chop! Even a magnificent cook such as I cannot work under such tight conditions.” He closes his sketchbook, quickly putting away the pencil back in its respective spot before unceremoniously stumbling to his feet. “We haven’t got all night!”

“I just love how you’re rushing me as if I somehow slowed you up, when you are in fact your own worst enemy. Need I remind you, I’m not the one who decided on the random dinner that would put you in ‘such tight conditions’?” In contradiction to his words, Keith does comply and begins to close up his laptop and notes.

“Redundant, irrelevant, surplus, nonessential, dispensable details!” Lance calls while walking down the hall to his studio, wildly throwing about his arms and hands which held the pencil case, sketchbook, and small tin (that happened to be a little watercolor palette).

“Well aren’t you just a walking thesaurus!” Keith yells, rolling his eyes in harmless amusement, chuckling when the artist’s only response is a noise which is something between indignant and oddly boastful. “More like a walking pain in my ass,” He mutters, sliding the laptop into its case.

“Okay, Mr. Picky, what do you think of this color?”

Humming in question, the author looks up and instantaneously freezes. The blood coursing through his veins chilling; color quickly draining from his face, replacing the natural warm tones with a sickening shade of desaturated green. Instead of seated on the floor in the living room, Keith now found himself seated in a faintly familiar chair in front of an equally as familiar desk.

 Stood in front of him, wearing a loose tank top that exposes his sides along with a pair of light denim skinny jeans, Lance is shooting him a bubbly grin. In his left hand is a sheet of watercolor paper which is absolutely covered in color swatches, in his right hand is a paint brush. Somehow, Keith understands that he’s referring to the dark burgundy brown shade on the far-left corner of the paper.

“Wha-?”

“Why are you still on the ground?! What part of ‘chop chop’ and ‘magnificent chef under pressure’ do you not understand, Mullet?” Lance yells in mock exasperation, once again throwing his arms into the air. He’s changed clothes, now sporting a sunshine yellow crop top hoodie with the phrase ‘is it tho?’ written in cursive, paired with hip-hugging light grey sweatpants.

“Uh…” _What the hell did he put in my coffee?_

Lips slowly tilting down in a dejected frown, a crestfallen atmosphere surrounds the now regretful artist. “Listen, you know you don’t… You don’t actually _have_ to have dinner with me, right? Like, had I really thought you were a thousand percent opposed to it, I wouldn’t have pushed you. But you, like…” Lance curses, seemingly angry with himself as he stumbles over his words. “I thought you were just bouncing off what I was saying, you know? Like, it seemed like you were being lighthearted as well. But, like I said, everyone misses the occasional social cue.” If Lance could delete the word ‘like’ from his dictionary, he’d do so in a heartbeat.

Heart clenching, Keith feels as if he may have just witnessed the death of a star. Now was most definitely not the time for a break down, nothing about this was Lance’s fault and Keith be damned if he’s going to make the innocent artist feel guilty. Besides, he’d much prefer to push his second… hallucination (?) back into the far recesses of his mind for now anyways. It will always be there for him to analyze later.

“No! No, dinner sounds good, I just,” Keith laughs and slaps himself lightly on the forehead as if to go ‘silly me’. “I must have spaced out a little.” _That was painfully fake, since when do I do stupid ‘silly me’ shit? That was such a bad move. Lance looks more concerned than he did before, fuckfuckfuck._

“Right… Well, there’s still time for you to back out. Don’t worry, Mullet, you won’t be hurting my feelings if you do. Just means there will be more food for me.”

Now it’s Lance putting on the poorly constructed front; brandishing a too large smile and a voice pitched just high enough to be off. Honestly there must be some sick joke hidden here somewhere. Two people putting up mutually happy fronts, and being a painfully awkward duo that really shouldn’t clash well but somehow do? Whatever sitcom Keith is currently starring in, he wants out.

“Absolutely not, no backing out from me,” Keith smiles earnestly, picking up his laptop bag before pulling himself up to his feet. Pausing, he worries his bottom lip for a moment before reluctantly adding, “I’m quite possibly the worst liar.” Lance quirks an eyebrow, Keith elaborates, “I’ve not been in the most… _desirable_ of mindsets here lately, and it feels like there’s just a bucket load of shit happening, when in reality, it probably isn’t that big of deal. Nonetheless, it’s been really distracting. Which, obviously, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to notice I haven’t really been entirely present the past couple of days.”

Lance goes to open his mouth, more than likely so he could spew a solemn and earnest apology, and attempt to offer advice or some help. Because, he’s Lance. He’s a silly, overdramatic, falsely cocky, and a complete sweetheart with a golden heart and an empathetic mindset.

Before he can get a word out, Keith kindly raises a finger before continuing, “ _But_ , the past couple of hours we’ve been working have been a really good escape from it, and there’s no doubt in my mind that once we get to the store, I’ll be all good again. You’re, like, a really nice distraction. Ever since you approached me in the café, I’ve barely thought about everything that’s been plaguing me.” _Which is ironic, considering you seem to be a crucial piece of what’s been happening._ “So, don’t worry, I would very much like to still have dinner tonight.”

“Awwww,” Lance coos, pinching the air near Keith’s cheek. “Now who’s making it sound like a romantic domestic date?”

“You know what? I’ve changed my mind.”

“Nope! No take-backs!”

“What are you, nine?”

Scoffing, Lance rears back and exaggeratedly gestures to his body. “Ex-fucking-scuse me? I’m an eleven.”

If Keith’s only response is a gradual appraisal of Lance’s frame coupled with an appreciative hum, of which draws the deepest of red shades from the artist’s cheeks, neither of them concern themselves with acknowledging it.

********************

“Did you even bother to make a list?”

“Keith, a true chef doesn’t need a list, they go with their _heart._ ”

“Really now? I guess that means Hunk isn’t a true chef, then, huh? He’s gonna be devastated.”

“Well,” Lance puts his hand over his heart as if truly feeling sorrow. “There is only room for one true chef in this friend group, and I hate to say that I am the only one legitimately qualified to have such a title. It’s a burden, and I know it’ll break the big guy’s heart, but fate is a fickle thing, Mullet. Fate is a fickle thing.”

“Is your ass jealous of the shit that’s coming out of your mouth?”

Letting out a surprised cackle that’s strong enough to nearly send Lance toppling into a soda display, the man slaps a hand over his mouth in attempt to muffle the embarrassing giggles. They’re strong blips of amusement, which have him stumbling unrestrainedly. Inevitably, he seeks refuge on Keith’s shoulder when he almost runs into a disapproving middle-aged man with frown lines and greying hair.  

Heart constricting at the unexpected contact, Keith eyes Lance’s hands warily, as if they are a hungry predator and he’s the unlucky prey. If it wasn’t for the fact the man is currently doubled over in hearty laughter, the author probably would have shoved him off out of instinct by now. However, those two seconds of restraint where he was able to think it through lead to his body unwinding, a fond smile taking the place of the previous shock.

“You are an absolute train wreck, you know that? No list for dinner ingredients, and nearly assaulting a random old guy? Tsk tsk. Pull yourself together, McClain!”

Wheezing, Lance purposefully goes a little laxer, putting more of his body weight on Keith. Cursing with a startled laugh, Keith shakes his head and holds onto Lance’s arms to keep him standing. “If you drag me down onto this dirty ass tile I will put my foot so far up your ass my big toe will be peeking out of your mouth.”

“Foot-fist me daddy.”

Choking, Keith immediately lets go of Lance’s arms and shrugs him off, letting the man drop like a giggly rock onto the floor. Where, he carelessly grabs onto one of the man’s legs and silently cackles, tears rolling down his cheeks. “Oh my fucking- absolutely not! What is up with you, who punched you in the giggle dick!?”

“GIGGLE DICK!” Lance screeches, if it were possible he’d laugh louder, but instead the laughter has resorted to harsh coughing. Everyone walking by have been taking notice of them, a mixture of disapproving and amused stares being shot their way. At this rate, Keith suspects they’ll be kicked out for causing a commotion.

“Oh-kay,” Keith tries to come across as annoyed, but there’s no way in hell he’d be able to be upset with Lance at the moment. “Get up before you choke on air, people are staring.” Carefully, the author steps out of the crumpled mess’s loose grasp, he then proceeds to lean down and easily pull said mess up by the arms. Stumbling to his feet, Lance wheezes out one last string of giggles while patting Keith on the arm.

“You- you are amazing, Mullet, I just want you to know that.” He then pulls away, waving Keith off when the man hovers his hands around him just in case he went stumbling about again. “I’m good I’m good, I’m like. So chill, so good. Let’s go, before we like, stare at each other too long and I start laughing again.”

Without questioning it, Keith nods his head tersely, biting back his own amusement as he swings around on his heel, immediately beginning to walk in the direction of the aisles before anything more can take place. Lance follows in tow, stumbling a little over his own feet. Eventually, he just decides to put one hand on Keith’s shoulder, and lets the other lead him around.

A handful of seconds of mindless wandering pass before Keith pipes up, “So, where exactly are we going?”

Shrugging, Lance replies with a carefree, “We can just go up and down the food aisles and refrigerated section. You got anything in mind that you may want for dinner?”

“Well, I was going to order pizza, before you had this wild idea of kidnapping me and forcing me to stick around longer. So, my apologies for being unprepared.”

“Wow, okay, and people call _me_ the dramatic one. Was that your emo way of saying ‘no’?”

“I would put it in lesser terms, which is just, my way of saying no. But if it makes some empty piece of you feel whole in order to add the word ‘emo’ in there, then yes, Lance, that was my ‘emo way’ of saying no.”

“Ugh, why do you speak in such long and drawn out essay responses?”

“Ugh,” Keith mocks “Why do you speak like an illiterate douchebag?”

Huffing, Lance pouts and leans forwards on Keith’s back. What’s gotten into him, he doesn’t know. But, this random bout of pure confidence and the fact Keith hasn’t told him to fuck off yet are things he would like to stick around.

“Okay, beep beep!” Lance yells, tapping on Keith’s shoulder. “Stop here!” Complying, Keith steps forwards, allowing Lance’s arms to easily slip off his shoulders. Turning to face the aisle they’re in, he raises an eyebrow at the large array of noodles.

“I take it you’ve come up with something?” Responding with a distracted hum, the ‘master chef’ rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, carefully narrowing his eyes on every differing box of noodles and their price tags. “You gonna clue me in on what I’ll be forced to eat tonight?”

“I figured I’d make some comfort food. Homemade mac and cheese is like, my specialty.”

Sucking in a sharp breath, guilt downpours over the author’s drawn in frame. “Uh, Lance, I’m la-“

“Lactose intolerant? I know that, Mullet, don’t underestimate me! Lancey-Lance knows how to make lactose free, delicious mac and cheese.”

“That’s a _thing_?!” Excitement starts bubbling up, without realizing it the author begins to naturally gravitate closer to the other. Interest in dinner suddenly peaking.

“Uh, of course it’s a thing? My little sister is lactose intolerant, and my mama was so adamant about making sure she didn’t miss out. She worked hard on perfecting personal lactose free recipes. So, feel special, Kogane, you’re about to have an infamous family recipe!” While speaking, Lance seems to be torn between two different types of noodles. Finally, he plucks a couple of boxes off the shelf and… throws them onto the ground?

“What the hell?”

“I’m… so stupid.” Lance stares at them, borderline defeated, biting down on an ever-growing smile.

“What exactly was your plan?”

“I’m used to there being a cart…”

Slowly, Keith bends down and picks the boxes back up, carefully handing them back to Lance. Dumbly, the author finally goes, “I literally don’t know what to say. You’ve ripped just about the entire dictionary out of me.”

“I am so ashamed of myself, and if it wasn’t for the fact I laughed myself out two minutes ago, I’d probably be crying laughing on the floor right now.”

Entertained, Keith just rolls his eyes and shakes his head before motioning in front of them. “Shall we carry on, you destructive personality?”

Nodding once, Lance shakes the boxes of noodles, “We shall. This aisle has provided me with what I needed, we can go forth!”

“Every day I question why I like you,” Keith impulsively mutters, stuffing his gloved hands into the tight pockets of his jeans. Walking a few steps, the man halts when he realizes there isn’t a second set of footsteps following behind. Looking back, he quirks an eyebrow at a paled and gaping Lance. “Uhhh?” Realization, paling, locking up. “Oh,” He squeaks.

“Like… likelike?” The other asks dumbly, pasta loosely hanging in his hands.

Unable to repress the nervous chuckle, Keith’s face flairs up. _How much am I going to blush today before my face permanently stays red?_ “That was a really juvenile way of asking.”

Flustered, Lance wildly waves a hand around before letting out a nervous chuckle of his own. “Never mind, never mind! It’s, it was a really stupid question anyway, sorry. I don’t, don’t know what I was thinking.” Mocking Keith from earlier, he smacks himself on the forehead lightly to say ‘silly me’.

In a burst of flaming courage and brash decision making, Keith blurts out, “I likelike you.”

Giggling like a stereotypical schoolgirl, Lance stumbles a little before going, “That was a really juvenile way of answering, but I likelike you too, Mullet.”

A beat of silence. “This is like really awkward.”

“Like painfully awkward, yeah,” Lance breathes, eyes twinkling despite the dim Walmart lighting. “Wait… did you just confess liking me in the middle of a Walmart while I’m holding cheap noodles and am dressed like I’m about to nap for a thousand years? That is… not how I imagined this going. Not that I imagined you confessing or anything! That would be… so weird. Like, wow so weird…” The words bleed into a string of forced laughs.

“I have.”

“Run that by me again?”

“I’ve imagined confessing. Or, you confessing. I’ve imagined it both ways, come up with so many scenarios. Most of them didn’t end well, and despite how awkward this is, it’s still a far better outcome than any of those.”

“Woah,” Lance puts a hand on his forehead, laughing incredulously. “I… don’t know what to do, oh geez. Do I hug you? Do we like, fist bump? I don’t… I don’t usually get this far. Like, meaning, this is the second time. You aren’t jerking on my dick, are you?”

“No, no! I’m, I’m not fucking with you, I really do like you. A bunch. This is a very surreal moment for me. I’m… I’m okay with a hug, if you wanna hug?”

Nodding quickly, Lance powerwalks towards Keith, abruptly stopping right in front of him. “Oh no, this is horrible…”

“What? How?! Did I do something wrong already?!”

“No, it’s just,” Lance heartily laughs, motioning between the two of them. “We are so romantically awkward, and usually in a situation like this there’s like a really confident person and a really nervous person and the confident person is like ‘here baby, lemme show you’ and I’m probably supposed to be that confident person but I’m really not like I’m painfully unconfident and-mmph!” Keith drags Lance down by the edges of his hood, pulling him into a sloppy, rushed, far less-than-perfect kiss.

Leaning into it, Lance’s eyes flutter shut, the noodles are now forgotten on the ground. His now free hand gravitates upwards, cupping Keith’s cheek gently, pulling him ever-so closer. Eventually, they do separate, hearts shimmering in their eyes, goofy love-stricken grins painted across both of their faces.

“You know, I knew you were socially incompetent, but I could of sworn you knew the difference between a hug and a kiss, Mullet.” Lance murmurs, and Keith couldn’t find it in him to be even the tiniest bit annoyed. Not when he’s distracted staring at glossy, bright pink lips. Bright pink lips that were just on his lips…

_What the fuck is happening?_

“You okay there, Mullet?”

“Kiss me again.” Keith demands. 

“Well, I’ll have you know you were the one who kissed me.”

“If you don’t kiss me right now, I will punch you in the dick. And I _will_ aim for the balls.”

“Alright alright! So violent, damn- mmph!!“ Keith cuts him off again. They separate. “That is not how you’re supposed to shut people u-mmph!” They separate once more. “Keith dammit, if you don’t let me sp-!” Finally, Keith wraps his arms around the other’s waist, hiding his face in his shoulder.

“I think my confidence ran out,” He meekly whispers when Lance tentatively wraps his arms around him. “And it would be like, really cool if you didn’t make fun of me right now. Because I am becoming increasingly more and more self-aware, so anything you may wanna say is stuff I’ve already thought and beyond. So, like, save your breath. For now. Do the whole thing later, when I no longer feel like melting into a puddle and slipping into the cracks of the tile.”

“Yeah, I think I can do that for you,” Lance murmurs.

Something about the moment, the vulnerability Keith is displaying, the way the two are wrapped up in one another, existing in their own little universe, makes speaking any louder than a mere whisper feel wrong. Encased in one another’s embrace, basking in the warmth of one another’s care and body heat. If the moment were a painting, it would be painted in gentle reds and yellows. Soft, pleasant, and cozy.

“You know what I just realized?” Keith hums. “We’re in the middle of a Walmart, and I’ve dropped my fucking noodles.”

With a little bit of a cool, easygoing blue to balance it all out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kISS KISS FALL IN LOVE

**Author's Note:**

> Did that suck? Hopefully not, aha.  
> Originally this was gonna be Shklance, and then I wrote Lance pining after Keith and I just... naaaaah.   
> I haven't written a chaptered fic in bloody ages, and I have planned like zero of this. Only got little bits and pieces that I gotta figure out how to work up to.   
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it, and that you'll stick around!  
> Constructive criticism is accepted!  
> See you next time, Lovelies!


End file.
